Another Brick In The Wall
by Heart Torn Out
Summary: HS! AU Greg is hated at his prep school because he's different. He's alone until he gets stuck bunking with Mycroft Holmes. He may have found a friend. Actually, he may have found more. Mystrade and sides of Mormor and Johnlock Irene/Harry, Sally/Anderson
1. We Don't Need No Education

**So... started this on Tumblr. Gonna continue it and finish it here. Should be done by either tonight or tomorrow. So. Have fun with it. just... kind of came to me. I realize i haven't updated in a while, so here. Have this as a peace offering for my suckiness.**

**MYSTRADE!**

**Current Song: Another Bring In The Wall, by Pink Floyd. **

**Current Thought:**My dad used to play this song in his truck all the time when I was little. Nice to know I have good memories of him. Ha. Thought that was impossible. Nice to know it's not...****

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><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part One<strong>

Greg was a junior. And really, he should have been used to all the teasing by now, he should have. But he wasn't, not really. It still stung and surprised him when someone threw a rude remark over their shoulder and it was aimed at him, when someone shoved him into something and laughed, when they threw things at him.

And really, all because he was a bit different?

Greg had come from the poorer side of town, was in the Prep school on scholarship. He was bright was what he was, brilliant he'd been told. But about practical things, like literature and maths and he was jolly good at football. He'd made the team when he came and they only tolerated him because he was _that_good.

Embarrassingly enough, Greg was also going grey at this young age. All the stress from school and living in the dormitories with people who really didn't like him at literally stripped his chestnut-brown hair of it's color. The girls called him Silver Fox, and not in a good way, and the boys just called him Old Man without being friendly.

It was hell.

He didn't know if he could make it as it was his junior year, and it had just begun. It was only day one and they were already throwing curses at him. And to top it all off, the junior class was full already for dorms so he would have to be bunking with a senior and that, well, that was just going to end him, wasn't it?

The part of the building, called the Baker House, that he was in was the oldest part, back when it was first built during World War II. It was beautiful, the building far off from the normal dormitory campus, secluded and in a wooded area. Great. More secluded so that if his roommate decided he wanted to kill Greg, he would have an easier time of it. He could just feel the silver hair taking over the rest of his hair color now.

The room he was sharing was spacious, more so than his room last year on the normal dorm campus. It felt more like a room at home than a cell in a school and that, that was something he was grateful for. Greg threw his suitcase onto the bed that was bare of sheets, the other made up with grey bedding that seemed to be made from silk over here. He wouldn't go touch it though; it just made him more frightened that his roommate was some stuck-up snobby rich boy who would skin him for it.

He unpacked his things, put his clothes and extra uniforms away and then made up his bed with the sheets his parents had splurged to get for him. They were cotton and soft and a muted brown color with a forest green comforter. It was homey and made him a bit more comfortable.

Baker House was relatively smaller than the other dorm buildings Greg had lived in in the past two years. It held about twenty students, ten bedrooms in all, five bathrooms, three shower rooms that had to be added in, and two recreational rooms with Wifi and a HiDef television set. There was a library in what used to be the attic and in the basement there was sports equipment and lockers to store the things you really only used once or twice during the year, as well as a small stage. Greg didn't know its use.

There was no need for a pool or any sports fields nearby the Baker House. There was a lake that took only five minutes to walk to and plenty of free space to kick a ball around for when he had to practice for football. It really was wonderful.

And it would be ruined, he knew, when everyone assigned Baker House saw him and knew who he was. His silver hair was what gave him away every single time he tried to make a friend. It was junior year. He didn't even see the point to try now, anyhow.

There was a creak behind Greg as he straightened out from smoothing down his comforter and he whirled around in surprise. Standing at the door to the room was a tall boy, only a year or two older than him, with rust colored hair that fell into his eyes a bit in a curly-que. When he met Greg's eyes, they were a steel grey color and absolutely wonderful to look at. He was tall, as said before, but slightly rounder in the middle, though that was alright, his height hide it well. And he was staring at Greg, probably at his hair and at his shabby outside-school clothes, since it was the first day and he didn't have to wear his uniform yet.

The boy gave him a quick once over and then said primly, "Gregory Lestrade, I take it?"

Greg tried to hide how his eyes bulged out of his head. How the hell...? And he had no idea who this other boy was. "Yeah...Who the hell are _you_?" He'd learned to go on the defensive right from the start. They would only turn on him in the end.

A line appeared between the boys eyebrows. "Mycroft Holmes," he said a bit affronted. He nodded to Greg as he walked in an got a book from one of the shelves. Greg kept his books in his suitcase. His last roommate had defaced them all and wrote expletives on all the pages. He didn't trust them out in the open anymore. Mycroft moved back to the door then stopped, turned around.

"There's a House meeting in ten minutes," he informed Greg, who only nodded tersely. After another second of staring at Greg, he then said, "And you can put them on the shelf. I promise I won't touch them."

He left then, leaving Greg blinking, mind reeling. How had he done that? Greg shook his head. Who cared? He was not leaving his books out. He treasured them too much. Yet... yet he got a different vibe from Mycroft.

Greg followed after the other boy. He left his books in his suitcase under his bed.

_Just in case._

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><p><strong>That first one is a bit short, I know. I'm sorry. Erg. Anyway! The next one I hope is longer. <strong>

***goes off to write* **

**Review? **


	2. We Don't Need No Thought Control

**So here's the second part! Enjoy!**

**P.S. it's beta'd by the lovely **hollydermovoi over on Tumblr! Many thanks to her!****

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><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part Two<strong>

Greg got to the closest recreational area, a common room so to speak just when the other inhabitants of Baker House were. He was glad he wasn't late and that the others wouldn't have an extra thing to badger him about. He knew he'd be getting enough of that alone and without a slip-up.

There were about twelve of them there, so there should have been only six rooms taken up. They came in pairs, presumably with their roommate. There was no teacher in sight and that was probably because there were seniors there to do the introductions into the House if you were new or a freshman.

Speaking of which, he was sure he saw a few of them, which made him feel even better; they wouldn't know who he was.

Mycroft was there already, sitting in a high backed chair as the other kids came in and took seats on the floor, couches and other chairs scattered around the mismatched furnished room. Greg stood up in the back, leaning on the doorjamb. He only started to listen when Mycroft spoke, when everyone was presumably there.

"Hello everyone. I am Mycroft Holmes. I'll be running things around here. I'd like to welcome you all to Baker House. There are a few rules, which I am sure you will abide by." He went into a ten-minute lecture about the use of the house and surrounding areas, the curfews for the week and weekends and use of the library and basement stage and lockers.

"Now that we have those preliminary things out of the way, I would like you all to introduce yourselves to each other, starting with the freshman. It would be most desired if you included at least one personal thing about you along with your name, age, class and if you've been in Baker House before." He smiled like a cat, and Greg wanted to groan and die a bit.

The first one to go was a tall boy, presumably a freshman. He was pale with high-cheekbones and blue-grey eyes. His hair was a mess of dark curls and a blue scarf was thrown precariously around his neck. He was laid out on a low couch, his roommate sitting on the end of said couch rolling his eyes.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm a freshman. Yes, _Holmes_. I'm Mycroft's little brother." He flashed a smile that looked sharp but sneaky. "I'm fourteen years old and I like to blow shite up. So. Don't get me angry, because I don't tolerate stupid and won't hesitate to show you just how much." A few people looked shocked. "It's my first time at Baker House, _obviously_. Freshman," was what he ended with.

Greg tried not to smile. If this prat kept it up, everyone would just ignore him and hate Sherlock instead.

Sherlock's roommate went next after swatting the other boy in the arm. For just having met, they already seemed to be fast-friends. "John Watson, freshman. I'm fifteen. I'm also bunking with this smart-arse," and he pointed to Sherlock, who gaped in feigned hurt. John continued on like he hadn't even seen Sherlock's face. "First time in Baker House, seeing as I'm a freshman and I want to join the army after school." He gave a pleasant smile.

Greg figured that the blonde, blue-eyed boy was all right. He seemed to make the prattish Sherlock shut his obnoxious gob and that was enough in itself for Greg.

A girl went. Her name was Molly Hooper and she was a bit shy, with her mousy brown hair in a ponytail. But she expressed her interest in going into the medical field, but more into the mortician's side of it. A boy, a bit hefty he was too, named Mike was another freshman. He was also into medicine and struck up a conversation with Molly about it. Two other kids, one a dark skinned girl with fluffy hair and the other a thin, tall boy with an annoying face, both juniors, wanted to go into law enforcement. Their names were Sally Donovan and the boy just introduced himself as Anderson.

There was another duo, sophomores as well, that kind of creeped the hell out of Greg. The short boy's name was James, but he insisted everyone call him Jim. He had a skull t-shirt on and smiled too much and was shooting daggers at Sherlock where he lay in the couch, glaring back. The boy standing next to him's name was Sebastian. He didn't speak much besides introducing himself and when he tried to smoke a cigarette, Mycroft sent him outside. There was to be no smoking in the house at all. Greg filed that away for later; he was, unfortunately, a smoker. He was trying to quit though.

Another set of people went, a high-class girl named Irene and John Watson's older sister, Harry. Irene was a junior a bit too into sex, Harry a senior with a drinking issue. There was a girl then, a senior, who popped in to whisper something to Mycroft. From what Greg could gather, her name was Anthea. She had just been reassigned to Baker House and was checking in. She disappeared soon thereafter. That made it thirteen people to the house now. Someone was getting a single room.

It was Greg's turn to speak. Mycroft had introduced himself already in the beginning, and he was all that was left. Unused to so many eyes on him, Greg knew he must be flushed, but he still spoke with a steady voice. Thank God.

"Gregory Lestrade," and he didn't say 'Call me Greg' because he knew some of them would regardless. "Junior. Sorry I didn't jump in with the others." He scratched his neck. "First time in Baker House, oddly enough. Most of you guys that aren't freshman have been here before so…." He cleared his throat. "Um, yeah. Well. A bit into law enforcement too," and he nodded to Donovan and Anderson who smiled a bit at him. "I'm on the football team. And…that's it I guess."

"Is your hair _really _that color?" Molly asked from where she was sitting on a beanbag next to Mike. She looked over at him with wide-eyes.

Greg felt a spark of embarrassment run through him, but before he could answer, Sherlock said, "Of course it is. Look at where it starts, right at the roots. And you can still see where there are still traces of the brown at the tips. Which means it's recent but not dyed." He rolled his eyes as if Molly had asked the stupidest question.

"Yeah, it is," Greg simply said. He shrugged.

"Fabulous," Jim crowed. "You see Sebby? You couldn't miss a target if it had hair like that." Sebastian shrugged. Greg simply felt unnerved. The fuck? Target?

He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"I think it looks disshy," Mycroft said, cutting off the chatter that had started back up. He looked right at Greg, who was flushing for an entirely different reason. "I must confess, I was wondering myself. But I do quite like it." He gave Greg what seemed like a rare smile then turned to the others and said, "Now that the introductions are through, let's have a tour shall we…?"

As Greg followed Mycroft and the others out, he realized something.

For the first time, no one had made fun of him. Not for his hair or his station in society. They'd commented sure, but out of curiosity and, hell, some of them had outright defended him on that front as well.

And someone had actually _liked _it.

Greg felt an odd sense of belonging to his new housemates. Well _most _of them. Jim and Sebastian were just downright creepy.

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><p><strong>What do you guys think so far? Ok?<strong>

**Reviews are loved, thanks!**


	3. No Dark Sarcasm In The Classroom

**Hello there! Just wanted to remind you that this is a Mystrade fic with sides of Johnlock, Irene/Harry, Mormor and uh... oh right erm, Anderson/Donovan. Just so you guiz know. Also was Beta'd by the wonderful **hollydermovoi**! Thank you darling! **

**ENJOY!**

**I'm getting to the good stuff guiz, I'm getting there.**

**Current Song: Heard Them Stirring by the Fleet Foxes**

**Current Thought: Hungry. Need to use a bathroom. And sleep is for wusses.**

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><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part Three<strong>

The first month went by easily enough. Greg barely shared more than a few sentences with Mycroft and Mycroft never really cared enough to start a conversation. Greg was glad of this; at least Mycroft never teased him or made fun of him, at least, not where Greg could hear.

The House was also pretty damn good too. With a few exceptions, of course. Sherlock really meant it when he said he liked to blow things up. The second day there, he had exploded one of the second floor bathrooms. They'd only found out because John had dragged him out of it before it had gone up in a cloud of smoke and flame. Mycroft had thanked the younger boy profusely for rescuing his 'idiotic brother' and now, that bathroom was under repairs.

Another exception was the odd rivalry that had grown between Sherlock and Jim. Although Sherlock was a year younger, he was in many of the sophomore classes and it was always a contest with Jim. Even at home in the House they would constantly, well, they wouldn't _bicker _per se; the two of them were much too witty for that. But they did the clever version of it and it was still a bit irritating. Greg had to thank John and Sebastian who would pull their respective roommates away from it all when it got to be too much for everyone.

Unless of course, Sebastian and John were on bad terms, which did happen on several occasions. They were both on the Firing Squad that the school had. John was in the Handgun Division, Sebastian on the Sniper Team, and in that area, they were both very competitive. Sherlock and Jim once got into a 'not-bickering' situation in which they were bragging about the two of them and who's 'pet', as Jim put it, could shoot better. John had insisted he wasn't Sherlock's pet. Sebastian had shut Jim up with a kiss. It honestly didn't surprise anyone.

Harry and Irene were a whole other matter. Harry snuck in alcohol, which Mycroft always found and got rid of without telling John. John had enough to worry about than his sister's drinking issue. He deserved to enjoy high school. Irene was promiscuous. She'd gotten into it with Sebastian when he had caught her in bed with Jim. Jim claimed it was an experiment (it probably was just to get back at Sebastian for coming in late the day prior). Irene had said it was business (it most likely was). Either way, it hadn't been fun to live in the House for that week. It had been filled with too much tension. And then of course, the two girls had simultaneously let the House know they were lesbians, which confused Greg a bit on Irene's part and cleared things up a bit on Harry's part, and the two of them had shared a secret smile. Greg knocked on all the doors now before he entered a room.

Just to be, you know, _safe_.

He got a long pretty well with Anderson and Donovan. Well, he didn't really get into too much conversation with them, but they did respect them. He shared any research he did on the profession they were all interested in and they eagerly explained their ideas to him as he listened. Still, it was an entirely professional kind of relationship they all had.

Molly and Mike were becoming fast friends, visiting the local mortuary together on a weekly basis and coming back with news from everyone. Molly had a crush on Sherlock, it was obvious, but she had still attempted to ask Greg out. He had declined; her heart wasn't in it and he didn't actually like her like that. And that had been the end of their communications. Mike didn't really bother with him.

Anthea turned out to be Mycroft's right hand woman and he would have suspected that they were in a relationship had Anthea not said to him on the first day that she popped into his and Mycroft's room that she was not, in fact, in any kind of relationship with anyone, especially Mycroft. In fact, she worked for him, in a way. And she had a room all to herself as her pay. Greg had to admit, it wasn't such a bad deal.

Mycroft. That was the subject he had been avoiding. Outside of the House, everyone pretty much ignored Greg unless they directly needed something from him, which was different than when they were all at the House, in which they all had a sort of respect for him and indulged in small talk or watched footy with him since he actually knew what was going on and could explain it to them in simple terms. But not Mycroft. Even out of the House he would nod to Greg in passing or spare him a few short words. Considering Mycroft was his year's class president and Valedictorian, Greg couldn't help but feel a bit chuffed.

But he stopped himself before it got too far. He couldn't just be fond of the other boy because he was nice to him. He savored it while he got it of course, because there was always a chance of cruelty tomorrow. Greg couldn't help the defense mechanism; he was just so used to it already that he automatically assumed people would turn on him. He thought it best to think that way. He'd save himself so much pain that way.

Everything changed of course the second month in.

Greg had two classes with Mycroft: art and P.E. They were two of the many classes that mixed grades. He just happened to have them with the older Holmes, and, now that he thought of it, Greg had P.E. with everyone in Baker House.

But that wasn't the point. The point was what happened in these classes. Greg usually sat in the back in art. It was the safest place to be. He was rarely bothered back there and when he was; it was done silently and reserved to only his and the bully's knowledge. But today, there was someone in his seat and the only other available one was up front.

Greg was going to get murdered today, he just knew it.

It started the second he sat down at the head of the class. "Hey Old Man!" one boy viciously shouted and pegged him with an oil pastel. It bounced off the back of Greg's head and as he ignored it, several kids, girls and boys alike, snickered. The teacher obliviously chattered on about the day's lesson on shading. "You're blocking my way and reflecting all the light off your chrome hair-do!"

Greg gritted his teeth as a girl complained about the sun getting in her eyes because of his hair. Someone else whispered about how he probably didn't have enough money to pay for hair-dye to get it colored. They should pity him, someone else said. Greg felt his stomach twist. He hated that. He absolutely hated it. He heard someone mutter 'queer'. He closed his eyes to it. He had to. There was nothing he could do-

"That's quite _enough_," he head a familiar voice hiss to the boy who had said that. Greg looked over at Mycroft in surprise. The other boy looked livid. But he wasn't looking at Greg; he was looking at the prat who had been making most of the comments and throwing things at him. "You will apologize when we leave this class," Mycroft added and his tone of voice brooked no chance of discussion on the matter.

Greg went the rest of the class in relative peace with the other kids giving him wide-eyed looks and Mycroft regarding them all with cool glances. Greg didn't know how to feel about any of this.

When he left the class, the rude boy went up to him and said angrily, "I'm only apologizing because of Holmes and no other reason." Greg didn't say anything, just stared, unimpressed. "You can't have your tubby little body-guard around forever, Lestrade."

Greg felt something ugly in him twist at the boy's comment on Mycroft's weight. "_Watch _your mouth," he sneered.

"Or what?" the prat replied with a smirk.

Greg wanted to say he'd punch him in the face but he was scholarship, he couldn't afford to lose that. So instead, he smiled and replied, "I'm sure Mycroft will make the rest of your year here a living hell." And then he walked away. It must have been the right thing to say, because the other boy looked a lot paler when they reached the gym a few minutes later one behind the other.

Greg didn't know why, not really, not unless he was willing to sit and analyze the feeling which he wasn't, but he felt a bit glad that he had finally been able to get to someone. But he was confused. Why had Mycroft done that…? No one had ever said a word for him. Only against him. It was…odd. He felt like he was being set up or something.

Greg shook his head and changed for gym, slipping into a grey t-shirt and black shorts that came just above his knees. He slid his feet into his runners, pulling his laces tight, and then ran out onto the field. Since he was on the football team, he didn't do regular P.E. like most of the kids did, but practiced with his team. Not that any of them liked him much. He was one of the few kids that had gotten on the team because of his skill and not a rich donation. And he was in a lower class than everyone on the team. But they dared not make a fuss about him. Once they saw he could play, they shut their mouths and let him do his thing.

Greg was a demon on the field. He was, surprisingly, the only one on the team with enough skill to be the captain. But no one had any respect for him, although they did listen when he spoke and told them what needed to be done. If there was one thing they could all agree on, it was the desire to win. And Greg could get them the trophy's they all so desperately desired. He himself was more in it for the sport and scholarships. He was the odd-ball-out Captain, a first for any school he was sure.

He played hard that afternoon, exposing his team's weak spots and running them through a few drills to toughen them up a bit. They said nary a word to him, but did impressively well and listened to his direction. Once the class was over, they played for an extra hour afterward, since it was the last class of the day. Greg scored several of the goals made during the small game he had set up that incorporated the drills they had been doing earlier. He wasn't very happy with it, but it would do for now. He nodded that they were dismissed and the field was empty in minutes.

He was alone. Again.

Greg sighed, not surprised at all. He kicked the ball around a bit more, scored a few more goals. The coaches let him do as he pleased; he was a valuable asset and they were one of the few people in the school that adored him. Most teachers did actually; it was the students that had a problem with him and it escaped him as to the reason why.

He was unaware the entire time of the person watching him play. Mycroft observed the other boy until he saw dark clouds gathering and decided it was time to head back to their room. He would have warned Gregory, excepting for the fact that the other boy had no idea he was still there, watching his skill and finesse. So he left and was sure the rain would bring the other boy home. He went back awed and confused and determined to ask Gregory every question he could think of, and there were many.

Just as Mycroft walked inside the common room, the sky ripped open with a flash of light and a clap of thunder. It had begun.

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><p><strong>So. There. Nice?<strong>

**Review!**


	4. Teachers Leave Those Kids Alone

**Ok, that's it for the night. I have to attempt at sleep. I think… If that fails, there will be another chapter uptonightthis morning. If not, then I've blacked out. Ok? Ok.**

**It's starting to get to the slashiness. Don't worry. I'm a big believer in back story though. And plot.**

***le sigh* I KNOW what is my issue? PLOT? How could I be so CRUEL? Oh well. I love the torture.**

**Current Song: White Blank Page by Mumford And Sons**

**Current Thought: What is this sleep?**

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><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part 4<strong>

It started to pour.

In seconds, Greg was drenched, the rain soaking into his gym clothes, dragging them down, making them heavy. After another hour of kicking the ball in the rain, his clothes got a bit too heavy with all that water and he decided to head back to Baker House and take a shower. At least, that was the plan. Hopefully Sherlock or Jim hadn't done anything stupid to the showers, or the girls hadn't used up all the water. Greg found that he liked the domesticity of it all very much, even though the prospect of no hot water didn't sound too great.

He ducked into the locker rooms to quickly collect his things, a nagging fear that someone could still be around and corner him like they'd done freshman year overwhelming him and making him fumble with his lock. He breathed a sigh of relief when he succeeded in getting the thing unlocked and he grabbed his things and left without another glance behind him.

The walk to Baker House was going to be a long one. It was ten minutes away from the P.E. room and fields. In the rain and wind? Greg could easily add ten more minutes to that. It was going to be hell to walk for 20 minutes in through the rain. He wished for a moment that he had been paying enough attention to his surroundings so that he would have been able to notice the difference in the weather. But he was initially glad he got the practice time in. The second he lost his skill on the football field, he had nothing. Greg was determined to keep himself sharp.

Greg was correct in his guess about the walk back to Baker House. It _was_ hell. He was freezing and shivering most of the way there and after every single step he thanked God that he was still alive and that tomorrow was Saturday, the start of a three-day weekend because of the holiday that Monday that excused them from class. He was going to need the weekend to rest after this and the extra day would ensure that he did something else besides sit around and warm up.

And then, Greg slipped. He slammed down on his knees, hands sliding through the muddy ground. It was more dirt than grass where he was, right at the little inlet near the lake by Baker House. He got up, a bit disgusted at the clumps of grass and mud in hanging in clots in his hair and clothes. At least his uniform was safe in his bag. It'd be soaked, but it was spared from the dirt and grime of his fall and for that he was thankful.

Until he remembered that he had forgotten his keys to the House. Greg groaned and sat down on the ground, right there out in the rain. Great. Now he was locked out. True it wasn't so late that no one would be up, but it was getting to be late the longer he sat and by the time he did make it to the House, most of his housemates would either be settled down somewhere comfortable or making their way to it. He guessed he was the only one stupid enough to get himself caught out in a messy storm like this, but Greg decided that was alright; he felt a bit unique because of it. Unique and absolutely soaked through, but still. Weren't mud and rain good for your pores?

Greg finally got up, the rain soaking into his underwear and making it very uncomfortable to be sitting on the ground. He made his way past the lake, past the trees and open field and finally, the solid outline of Baker House came into his line of vision, making him sigh in relief. _Oh thank God_, he thought. _Home_.

Greg ran up the small set of steps in the front of the House and, after only a moment's hesitation, he knocked on the front door as loud as he could, readying an explanation for whichever of his angry housemates opened the door, demanding why he was back so late and walking around in such unstable weather.

He was not expecting Mycroft to open the door. It was the last person he would have thought to come. But his roommate was there all the same, seeming a bit shocked and…was that relief? That was relief, Mycroft was relieved. What? Why would he be relieved? Had he been worried? Greg felt a bit bad about that. Mycroft had probably thought he would get blamed if Greg got into any kind of trouble since he was sort of in charge of the Baker House. Stupid of Greg really; he should have been more observant of the weather. He could have gotten not just himself but Mycroft into trouble as well. So stupid of him.

He stood there, dripping onto the front steps before Mycroft snapped out of whatever daze he had been in and said, "Greg, get inside before you catch something or make whatever you have worse." And then he grabbed Greg by the shirt sleeve and yanked him inside, slamming the door shut and locked in a moved that looked almost simultaneous. Which was amazing because he had been pulling Greg into the House at the same time. Greg wasn't going to lie: Mycroft ceased to amaze and impress him.

And… what had he called him? Had he just called him Greg? That was… what was that? Everyone around the House usually called him Lestrade. Sherlock had been the one to start that. He had given Greg one look and said, "Nope. We're calling this one by his last name. A bit more professional, as he'd all like us to believe he is. Let's just… play along with his delusions, shall we John?"

John had rolled his eyes, apologized on the other boy's behalf. "Sorry Greg. He's an absolute tosser today. I think he's going through a phase or something in which he has to insult everything that moves."

"I don't insult you," Sherlock had said to John.

The other boy had rolled his eyes. "Yes you do. You call me stupid and an idiot. A lot."

Sherlock had snorted as they walked away and said, "That's only because I think you're smarter than everyone else around here. I could be calling you a moron."

And that had been that. The name had spread like wildfire. Molly had picked up, so that meant Mike had. Sherlock and John spent time arguing with Jim and Sebastian, so those two had started to use it and get used to it. Harry was John's sister so she had picked it up and that meant Irene did too, and whoever Irene slept with which happened to include Anderson and he was sort of dating Sally, so she started calling Greg that and well… hopefully you can see the picture. Everyone pretty much called him Lestrade. Even Anthea. Except she added a Mr. to the start of it. Then again, she didn't call anyone by their first name except Sherlock and John. Not even Mycroft.

So to have Mycroft call him Greg now, after hearing 'Lestrade' from everyone else and rude names from the kids in class, Greg felt something like a shard of ice in his chest melt at the man's words. He only realized Mycroft was talking again a few minutes later.

"…bloody _tempest _out there. I thought you'd be back _hours_ ago! You're soaked. And _filthy_. What exactly _happened_?"

Greg snorted. He wasn't a child. He didn't need to be treated like one. "I had a fight with the rain," he said snarkily, then made his way up to the third floor bathroom. He dripped the entire way, hoping he wouldn't be made to clean up the mess he was making, because that was a huge mess. Greg stopped right at the shower room and groaned. His night clothes and towel were in his room. He made a strangled noise and turned around, having it in his mind to go grab his things when he was stopped by Mycroft's towering figure.

"Go on, wash up. I can get your things," the older boy said gently.

Greg wanted to take it the wrong way. He wanted to put up his usual defenses and say no, that he knew Mycroft would just leave him hanging, in need of clean clothes, stealing the ones he already had (it had happened in sophomore year). But honestly? Greg was tired. He couldn't argue and so he just nodded and walked into the showers as Mycroft went to the stairs and headed down.

Greg stripped, hissed a bit at the feel of damp clothes falling off of his body, exposing his already chilled body to the frigid room. He planned on changing that. Greg walked into one of the shower stalls, turning the water on. He cranked it all the way to the red and hot water squirted out, hitting him in the face and upper chest as it came out of the shower-head, filling the stall and bathroom with steam. Greg moaned at the feel of the hot water warming him up, stinging at first because he was _that_ cold but then scalding him with its intensity as his skin grew accustomed to the temperature. It was honestly one of the best showers he had taken, and maybe it was because he'd been so cold and wet before, but still. It was wonderful.

"_Oh thank goodness_," he murmured, his mouth filling with hot water at every word.

Greg finished up, washing all the dirt and grime off of his body, feeling clean and refreshed as he walked out staying well behind the shower curtain as the water dispersed. He didn't need to. On a chair by the shower he had been using was a soft, plushy, black towel that _did not belong to him_. Under that were a shirt and Greg's sweat pants and socks: his night clothes. But Greg took what he was given, drying himself off with the towel and then changing into his clothes. Underwear was included, making him fight a blush at the thought of Mycroft of all people touching his underwear. For some reason, again not one he wanted to analyze much but should have, it sent a spark of… _something pleasant_ through his body, pooling in his belly. But no; he shouldn't feel like this.

Mycroft was probably setting him up anyways.

Greg threw the towel into the House Hamper and once fully clothed, made his way to their shared room. He hesitated at the door. He really didn't know what to gather from this entire situation, but he had to face the other boy sometime. He took another quick walk down the hallway, just to calm his nerves. Under John and Sherlock's door, a soft, pale blue light shone. John was probably on his blog, typing like a turtle stuck in molasses with Sherlock bugging him the entire time as he looked over his shoulder. They were probably both in bed, side by side in John's. But those two weren't doing anything but holding hands or cuddling at this point. Greg was sure that with the influences in this House, they would be learning other ways to spend their time quite soon.

From under Jim and Seb's door, there was no light, but quiet bed-squeaks and rustles. Those two were probably fucking each other in disturbing ways. Irene had stopped seeing Jim because he was too fucking weird and a bit terrifying in bed, according to her. He was just not _safe_, and it had nothing to do with refusing to use a condom. He'd use a condom; it was just the _other things_ he used. Apparently, Sebastian was on-board with whatever it was Jim did, because he always left their room with a smile on his face in the morning, despite the bruises or occasional cut he had marring his skin. Jim would just call him gorgeous or beautiful in the tone of voice an artist would use while addressing a particular master piece and the smile would come two-fold on Seb's face. And that was that.

From under Irene and Harry's door, a soft yellow light was on which could mean two things: the first was that Irene was modeling for the other girl. Greg didn't know if they were in a relationship or not, but Irene loved to model her clothes (or lack thereof) to Harry, no matter the time. They had the largest closet in there room because Irene had insisted that it wouldn't hold her wardrobe and the it was imperative that she have room for her entire wardrobe. Irene would pop into her closet, then walk out wearing something new. The second thing was that Harry could be reading to Irene. Irene claimed that Harry's voice must have been designed by the angels because she absolutely adored it. She had started making Harry read aloud to her the day she heard Harry reading out one of Shakespeare's sonnets to John to help him on an English assignment. Apparently, John could focus better if someone read it to him, and since Sherlock had been a bit cross with him at the time and refused to help, Harry had volunteered. And Irene had demanded she read to her whenever asked. Apparently, Harry had agreed and they did that some nights, just laid together in one bed and read and listened.

The other's were on the first floor or third floor, but Greg was composed enough that he could go back inside their room and maybe face Mycroft. He walked in to find the other boy, sitting up in bed, reading a book that Greg couldn't see the name of. He cleared his throat and Mycroft looked up, a small smile coming to his face as he took the sight of Greg in. Greg swallowed hard. Mycroft was in silk, burgundy-colored pajamas, a white beater underneath the button-up top that wasn't very buttoned up. Greg's cock twitched in his sweats. Wait, what? No. No. What was wrong with him? Mycroft was the enemy. He was going to spring his trap on Greg any moment now.

….wasn't he?

"You're looking decidedly better," Mycroft say conversationally.

Greg merely grunted and flopped onto his bed, on top of the covers, putting his back to Mycroft. But then he felt guilty. Because, planning his demise or not, Mycroft had still helped him out and that was more than anyone had ever done for Greg here. So he flipped around, supported his head on his hand, his elbow propping him up and said a bit stiffly, but honestly, "Thanks."

Mycroft's forehead got that little wrinkle again and he said, "Please explain to me why it is that you do that?"

Greg sat up, crossing his legs in Indian Style as he turned to face Mycroft. "Excuse me?" he said slowly. His heart was beating in his chest.

"Oh, how silly of me. Maybe you don't realize it, maybe you do. But you go on the defensive whenever you speak with me. You don't do it to the others, but maybe that's because none of them have ever tried to have a long conversation with you like I do. So. Why do you do it? Why do speak like you're accusing me with every word?" Mycroft wasn't yelling. He was just speaking as though stating a fact. A very observant fact. Greg was surprised he had picked up on that. Now there was nothing left to do but be honest.

"Because I'm not stupid," Greg said through gritted teeth. "I know that at any minute, you'll turn on me, just like everyone else. I don't know who you think you are, to torture me like this, but I see right through it." His heart was beating so fast, Greg was sure Mycroft could hear it from all the way on the other side of the room.

There was a long silence and then the other boy said, "Is that what you honestly think?" Greg squeezed his eyes shut and nodded his head. When he heard no response, but instead felt a dip in the bed, he opened them to find Mycroft sitting cross-legged at the foot of it. His eyes were wide and earnest. "What have they_done _to you?" he asked quietly. Meaning the school, society. The world.

And so that was how Greg found himself telling Mycroft about his last two years here. How the first two weeks were great. He had a few friends, he was on the football team. And then people had found out about his financial status. And then he'd started going grey. And things had gotten bad. Freshman year he was stuck in a series of gang beatings. He'd almost been unable to play football and that was all he'd wanted to do, really. Play his sport, do his work. Get good grades. He hadn't been able to see what was wrong with that. People were just horrible to him.

He went on to talk about the locker room incident in which he had been caught staring at another boy's chest. He'd been called a 'queer' from then on. It just added insult to injury when he'd get pushed around. The boys would yell, "_Rape_! He_touched _me, the sick wanker!", the girls would laugh and ask him if he wanted to go shopping with them. It had gotten so bad he'd wanted to drop out. The worst part was that Greg really was gay; he didn't see any shame in that fact. But he wasn't an outright flamer; he wasn't flamboyant, he never hit on anyone because he knew they didn't go that way. He'd had only a few boyfriends, and they were only through the summer because Greg would be too damaged from school for them to deal with him for longer than that and he couldn't get anyone at school.

He went on about his sophomore year how one of the boys had pretended to befriend him, had pretended to be romantically interested in him. They'd kissed and fooled around a bit, but they'd _never _had sex. The next day, the boy had gone around complaining how drunk he'd been, how Greg had practically taken advantage of him and how he never wanted to be associated with him, had been faking it the entire time. It was enough for Greg to have to see a counselor for a bit. It was terrible. Hw was only still coming to school because it was one of the best, he still had football and the possibilities of scholarships and, to be honest, compared to the past years in which his roommates were continuously planning his demise, this year wasn't half-bad. He kind of liked Baker House and it's inhabitants. He felt _safe _here.

And _that_, that was why he was so afraid that whatever Mycroft was doing, he was doing it to hurt him. Because Greg had only ever been hurt. He didn't know what it was like to have a true friend. He didn't know if he could handle that. No one had ever wanted to try with him.

Mycroft sat through the entire thing, only interjecting with questions on clarification. When it was over, Greg felt spent, like he had just unloaded a burdern off of his chest. And he felt great.

"So there," Greg said a bit roughly. "Now you know. Feel free to destroy my life now. I feel ready."

"I'm not…I was never going to…Greg, that was not my intention. Ever," Mycroft said slowly, carefully. "I was just honestly confused as to why a wonderful person like you seemed so guarded and unliked. The fact that people blame your financial status, sexual orientation and IQ makes them the idiots and you a victim of society's ignorance, and for that, I am genuinely sorry." He was quiet for another few minutes, unsure of what to say, before he smiled at Greg softly and said, "You are quite amazing with a football. I saw you playing."

Greg sat there speechless. The only people who had ever complimented his sports skills had been his various coaches, trainers, teachers and his family. The boy who had pretended to like him hadn't even been very convincing (Greg had just been desperate, hanging on to what he was given); he hadn't even mentioned Greg's talent with a football. He could tell that Mycroft's compliment was genuine.

"Uh, um… you were watching?" Mycroft nodded. "Well….thank you, then?" Greg had no idea how to handle compliments; he wasn't used to them.

"When is your next game?" was Mycroft's next question.

Greg sat in awed silence for a moment. Had Mycroft just…? Was he implying that he wanted to…? He blinked a few more times then said with a dry mouth, "N-next Thursday. Against Eaton."

Mycroft gave a smile. "You'll smash them, I have no doubt of that. Still; I'll be in attendance." He got off the bed as Greg stared in wonder at the retreating boy. When he reached his bed he stopped, turned and asked, "_If _it's alright with you, that is."

Greg realized Mycroft was actually speaking to him. He nodded quickly. "Yes. Definitely."

Mycroft smiled and now it was different; Greg saw the genuine happiness and pleasure there. This was _real_. "Good," Mycroft responded. "Good. I'll be the one with your number painted on my face." He chuckled then and Greg didn't know whether to take it seriously or as a joke. He decided to wait on that decision for now. He need to just… absorb what had just happened.

Because he had just made a _friend_.

* * *

><p>The next day, while Mycroft was away doing whatever it was that Mycroft's did on the weekends, Greg unpacked his books.<p>

And he put them on the shelf.

* * *

><p><strong>Hoprfully that's a bit better length wise. I'll be back tomorrow with more. I promise. I'm really into this story.<strong>

**Review? **


	5. Hey! Teacher! Leave Those Kids Alone!

**So...Mormor has a big part in this, since the football team is playing against Eaton and Seb in the cannon went to Eaton and got kicked out of Eaton in my story here...**

**So.**

**Have fun.**

**Current Song: White Shadows by Cold Play**

**Current Thought: I'm hungry and tired and it's only 12:52.**

***le sigh***

* * *

><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part 5<strong>

"Why are we here again?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft started, a bit exasperated.

"No, not in general. I mean us specifically," Sherlock clarified.

They were all sitting on the bleachers, the whole of Baker House, at the football game against Eaton. Mycroft had declared it a House Outing and so they all were required to participate. On one of the bleacher benches, Mycroft, John and Sherlock sat near each other. Mycroft was sporting a 0 and 1 on either cheek, the number of Greg's jersey. He'd asked John to paint it on his face earlier in the school's colors. Each of the groups of Baker House also had a poster to raise whenever Greg made a goal. Mycroft was trying to go for supportive. He hoped he was succeeding.

Sitting beside Mycroft, as earlier stated, were Sherlock and John. John was in a jumper and denims, while Sherlock was in his Belstaf and scarf, and they were holding hands. It was a bit new, so they were sticking to that for now and if anyone gave them a dirty look, Mycroft and Sherlock would simultaneously send them glares. They would eventually look away.

Behind them, a bit higher up on the bleachers, but still close enough, sat Jim and Sebastian. Jim was in a white, v-necked t-shirt with a zip-up hoodie over it and a baseball cap with the Union Jack emblazoned on the front. He had an ear-bud in one ear, listening to something that sounded suspiciously like the Overture of the Thieving Magpie on his iPod. Next to him, smoking yet another cigarette, was Sebastian, an arm calmly thrown around Jim's shoulders, indifferently surveying the entire field. He was, after all, an Eaton reject. They'd kicked him out freshman year.

Mycroft heard Jim clear his throat and turned to see what the fuss was about. "Could you...?" was all the younger boy said. Sherlock and John also turned, curious to see if he was speaking with then he stuck his tongue out. This could mean two things: he was trying to tell them something and none of them understood him, or he was doing something to try and rile Sebastian up or get his attention. It seemed to be the latter, as Sebastian sighed and reached into Jim's own pocket, pulling out a piece of gum. He unwrapped it and placed it on Jim's tongue. The other boy smiled and chewed the piece slowly, leaning into Seb's personal space.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, and then, instead of kissing the other boy like Sebastian had thought he was, Jim blew and popped a bubble in his face, pink gum sticking to Sebastian's nose. As Jim pulled back a bit to laugh, Seb merely sighed and peeled the gum off of his nose and cheeks. The Holmes Brothers and young Mr. Watson sighed in unison and turned around. It obviously didn't concern them.

Sitting a bit lower down than the three of them were Harry and Irene, all the way down on the last bleacher, nearest to the field. Harry was in a jumper similar to her brothers, making Mycroft suspicious as to the fact that it was a gift from their parents, and Irene was in an impeccable skirt and blouse outfit. Harry was cheering on the cheerleaders from both schools and Irene was stealing Harry's flask and taking a swig from it, writing down notes in a small, black note book, every once in a while whispering to Irene about something.

On the other side of the bleachers, a bit away from them, were Mike and Molly, and Anderson and Sally. Unlike the other members of their House, they spoke to others outside of Baker House and were a bit more social. They had their posters and knew what to do with them. Mycroft just hoped they did it.

"- and as I was saying, you still haven't told us why we had to come here today too. What is it, moral support? I mean, he can kick a ball, that's great, but-" Sherlock was cut off by John.

"Sherlock. Shut. Up. Please, love. Your voice is going right through my head today. And did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, Mycroft just wants to watch footy? And that maybe he just wants to support Greg? Is there anything wrong with that?"

Sherlock's hand tightened in John's as a light went off in his eyes. _Oh no_, Mycroft thought, trying to focus on the players warming up on the field instead of on his brother. _Here he goes_.

"You like him." And there it was, out in the open, the fact that Mycroft had been trying to hide. "You like him, oh my god, it's true, John Mycroft likes Greg. What is my life? How is this possible?"

"Well Sherlock, when someone really likes another person..." John said, rolling his eyes and sounding overly sarcastic.

"No," Sherlock insisted. "No. My brother doesn't like people, John. He doesn't and there have been plenty of people to like. This is the first time he ever has liked someone John, John I don't think I understand. John. John!"

John was more focused on Mycroft though. "Mycroft?" The older boy looked at him. "It's... it's _ok_, you know. It's _fine_. It's _all_fine."

Mycroft sighed. And this was why he liked John, thought John would be a wonderful influence on his brother, or else at the least keep him out of trouble. "I_know_it is," he said softly.

He focused back on the game that was about to begin, ignoring Sherlock's cries of confusion and John's vain attempts to get him to hush, and the sound of Jim murmuring disturbing things to Sebastian that made the other boy laugh. Today was about Greg, not Mycroft's growing crush.

And was it a crush? He admitted that he liked Greg very much. In the few months he'd known him, he had discovered that Greg was brilliant and quick, athletic and strong, but broken and beaten in ways that made Mycroft hurt a bit too. And he was gorgeous, no matter what the other students said or claimed. You couldn't find chocolate brown eyes like that everywhere, couldn't get a snub nose like that on just anyone. The hair though; Mycroft was rather fond of it.

He tried not to smirk smugly, though, when Sherlock and John gasped as Greg made the first goal impressively, although he did chuckle when he heard Jim untangle himself from Sebastian and say, "My, my, _Greggie-poo_. Look at you _run_." Although, on second thought? A bit creepy coming out of Jim Moriarty's mouth and it got even worse when Sebastian hummed in agreement.

But the game went on, and very well it must be said. The other team members of their school team didn't dare ignore Greg's shouts and instructions, passed it to him when necessary and needed and generally wiped out the Eaton boys pretty well. Greg scored the first goal, a few scattered in-between and then the winning goal. Their posters went up countless times and many of their classmates gave them odd looks. A few of them even asked who Greg Lestrade was and Mycroft coldly told them it was their team's captain. They were left alone after that.

Once they had won, many cheers went up on the field and the coaches of the respective teams went to speak with each other off to the side, leaving their boys to have a short meet and greet on the field as most of the fan-crowd dispersed. The Baker House residents did not leave, however, sticking around and determined to greet and congratulate Greg on a job well done.

Greg on the other hand was just stunned. He'd only gotten the chance to look up once or twice during the game and when he had seen not only Mycroft but the rest of Baker House, cheering him on and supporting him, he had felt this odd, warm tightening in his chest and decided that it was a good thing. They cared. They had come. Mycroft had kept his promise and Greg had this insane urge to hug the other teen. Maybe he even would, once he showered and changed out of his playing uniform. He was filthy. But he still had to go shake hands and make peace with the Eaton boys.

Being the captain, he had to shake hands with Eaton's captain before anyone else did or said anything. So Greg did that, shaking the boys hand firmly and flashing a smile. "Well played," the other boy, _Dimmock_Greg had heard, said stiffly. He then walked away, going to his other coach to inquire something of him. Greg nodded to his teammates, his version of a slap on the back for a job well done and was about to walk away and to his housemates when he heard the worst words that could be said on the playing field.

"So that's the silver haired faggot you were talking about?"

Greg squeezed his eyes shut as giggles were stifled among his teammates and outright laughs were had on Eaton's side. When he turned around, it was to see an Eaton boy smiling.

"Excuse me?" Greg said, his voice going up an octave.

The boy smiled. "I'm sure you heard me, _captain_."

_He's only doing it to rile you up because he lost_, Greg told himself. _That's it. Oh don't hurt one of them, please don't make me punch someone._

They were ruining a perfectly good game.

From the bleachers, Sherlock frowned and poked his brother in the arm. "Mycroft," he said, nodding to the crowd that had formed around Greg on the field. They were laughing, but they weren't laughing with him; they were laughing at him.

The older Holmes' brow furrowed and then a spark of anger lit in him. But before he could do anything, Jim stood up. His face was set in a blank mask and he snapped, "_Sebastian_." The other boy sighed, nodded and stood up and followed. Once at the foot of the bleachers, Jim said, "Give me a minute, yes?"

And then he walked away and strolled toward the crowd.

Mycroft made to get up, but Sherlock held him back. "No. Let's...watch. Just for a bit," he amended when Mycroft shot him an ugly look.

John merely sighed. "We can always get him back later if he fucks it all up."

* * *

><p>God they were mocking him, his own teammates joining in and it hurt because now Mycroft had to watch it happen and to Greg, that was more humiliating than anything that had happened before. To have Mycroft, someone Greg was beginning to look up to, see him beat down and weak? Greg couldn't stand it.<p>

And then he heard that familiar voice cutting through the laughter. "'Scuze me, pardon me. Sebby, make them _move_." And then Jim was right beside him, a manic gleam in his eye that made the crowd slowly stop laughing and focus on him. Sebastian stayed a bit off to the side.

"Oh ha ha ha," Jim said, a bright smile on his face. He leaned on Greg and said dramatically, "That was sooooo funny. But who's bothering you? That one?" He pointed to the boy who had started it all and Greg could only nod his consent. What the hell was going on here? "Right," Jim said.

Then he turned to the boy. "That was very fun for you I bet, but the flirting's over Eaton boy. I've had enough now." His voice was high and shrill and there was still a laughing undertone. But the look in Jim's eyes was anything but silly. "You've seen what Greg can do on the field. Why, you're putting him down just to hide the fact that you're a loser."

"No wait just a minute-" someone started.

"Seb," Jim merely said and Sebastian sighed again (he seemed to love sighing) and punched the speaker in the stomach, silencing him. "Thank you dear. Now, where was I?"

"Loser," Seb responded.

"Right." Jim turned back to the initial perpetrator, who was now a new shade of white. "But it ends _now_," Jim said a bit darker. "Or else," and now he slunk around Greg and stood in front of him, walking forward until he was inches from the Eaton boy. "Or else, I will _burn_you," he said innocently. In a flash, though, his face was contorted and absolutely manic. "I will burn _the heart_out of you." The other boy stumbled backward in an attempt to get away from Jim, who was smiling brightly again and turning toward Sebastian. "Won't I, Sebastian?"

He nodded and suddenly, everyone took a step back away from the three of them. There was a ring of space separating them all now. Greg swallowed. James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran had just defended him. How quaint. Well, there was a first time for everything.

"Um, thanks?" Greg said into the awkward silence that head descended up on them all.

Jim shrugged happily. "No one gets to make you feel bad about yourself if they aren't me."

Greg blinked, said, "Now hang on," stopped, then sighed in surrender. "Never mind."

And then the magic words from one of the Eaton boys in the crowd: "Eh! Ain't you Sebastian Moran? The Moran who got kicked out of Eaton last year?" A murmur rippled through the crowd and Jim turned to Sebastian, that manic look back in his eyes.

"You got kicked out of Eaton?" he asked.

Sebastian shrugged. "Yeah. So?"

"Why?"

"He shot a lad!" someone in the Eaton crowd crowed. Their school kids had quickly dispersed. They were smart; they knew how Jim was and didn't want to get mixed up in that. Then again, neither did Greg. He just wanted to get over to Mycroft, thank him for coming and bringing everyone, and maybe hug him. Maybe. He also wanted a shower. And Moriarty wasn't making that easy.

"Did he die?" Jim asked the crowd.

A boy up front looked horrified. "No! _Of course not_. Got shot in the chest, but he didn't die. Good God! What is _wrong_with you?"

But Jim was ignoring the boy. He was ignoring Greg who really just want to go. Instead he turned to Seb and asked simply, "Were you aiming to kill?"

Sebastian looked down at the ground. "He didn't die. He was a prat and worse then anyone you've ever had to deal with and they put me out when I clipped him a few times."

"That wasn't the question, Sebastian. _Answer it_." And then softer, "For me?" He caressed Sebastian's face and then slapped it. "Now."

Greg stared horrified then saw from the corner of his eye Mycroft, John, Sherlock, Harry and Irene get up from the bleachers and start to walk over to investigate. Thank God. Things had been starting to get really weird here.

Sebastian looked like he could cry. "Yes," he whispered to Jim very softly.

Jim kissed him then, whispered, "That's my Tiger," and smiled a bit crazily.

And then the same boy that had started with Greg said, "You're a queer too, Moran? Not surprised really, seeing who you go around defending."

Jim was turned around and onto the boy in seconds. "What?" He turned to Sebastian just as the others from Baker House showed up. "Shoot him, Seb. Shoot him in the head, he's annoying."

"I would, but my gun's at home," Sebastian said regretfully.

"Enough!" Mycroft said. "Absolutely enough. Moriarty, Moran. Get out of here, now, before someone calls a gun-threat on you two and Baker House gets raided for illegal weapons. Go on, _leave_."

Sebastian tugged Jim away, who was glaring at everyone, and then ended up slinging him over his shoulder and carrying the smaller boy out of the field. Jim didn't make a sound.

"Congratulations on the win, Gregory," Mycroft said, ignoring the peeved boys around them entirely. He smiled and Greg's stomach actually flipped a bit. "It was impressive."

Greg gave a small smile then tentatively reached out and traced with a finger his jersey number painted on Mycroft's cheek. "Thanks. You got into it, I see."

"Yes, well. I had help," and he nodded primly to where Sherlock and John were standing, still holding hands, looking a bit worriedly at the staring Eaton boys. Harry and Irene were scowling, Harry with an arm thrown casually around Irene's shoulders, Irene with an arm wrapped around Harry's waist. Mike and Molly had left for Baker House earlier, so only Donovan and Anderson came behind those two. They were a bit confused as to the goings on, then pissed when John whispered what had happened.

"Cor," one of the Eaton players said, "you all queers?" Sherlock's eyes widened in anger and John's in disgust. Harry lifted an eyebrow and Irene flipped him off. Mycroft said nary a word, just glared and Greg felt a terrible ache that he was bringing this down on his friends, that it was his fault. How could he be so stupid? He was a terrible person, to do this to the people that were just trying to befriend him. Terrible. "Is that all they teach here?" He continued and chuckled, but he chuckled alone, and then caught sight of Anderson and Sally leaning against one another. "Never mind! You two at least have it right, don't you? Not secretly fucking your sister though,are you? Because that's all your little faggot-group needs and-"

No one was more surprised than Sherlock when Anderson punched the Eaton player square in the face.

A few of the players held the Eaton boy back, and Greg did that same for Anderson before it got bloody. "Anderson, what the fuck are you doing?" he asked.

"Wanker was getting a bit on my nerves and-and-" Anderson seemed at a loss. "Just seemed like the right thing to do at the time." He shook out his hand. "I'm screwed, aren't I?"

But Mycroft was shaking his head. "Not if I can help it. Which I can. Let's...move along now gents, shall we?" And with that, he grabbed Greg by the wrist and led him away. Sherlock and John followed, Sherlock cursing, John whispering reassurances. Harry and Irene followed them, Sally and Anderson close behind. They were all silent. As they left the football field and entered into the common area where the students from the different schools were getting to know each other, they all relaxed. Sherlock even started to chuckle a bit, getting everyone to laugh along too.

"Well that was..." Harry said.

"Eventful?" her little brother supplied.

"That's a word for it," Sally pipped up with.

"I'm just... going to get something to eat. That makes sens for right now. Anyone care to join me?"

Everyone but Mycroft and Greg agreed to go. And it was mostly because the two wanted to talk and everyone else was aware of that fact. When they were mostly alone, they began to walk back to Baker House. People glared and whispered as Greg walked by and he looked fixedly at the ground as he walked. That is until Mycroft draped a careful arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer, encouraging Greg to wrap a timid arm around Mycroft's waist as they walked companionably. Several people's eyes bugged and they looked away. Greg didn't know what exactly this was accomplishing, but he felt great.

When they finally got far enough away that they couldn't be seen, Greg let go and almost yelled. "What was that?" There was excitement in his voice. Was Mycroft trying to make a move on him? Did that mean-

"You were standing up to them," Mycroft said carefully. "You just showed them you have a friend, a real one. And that you aren't afraid of them." And Mycroft had really just wanted to do that for some time now.

Greg tried not to let his disappointment show. "Oh. Well, thank you? I think." Mycroft was trying to help. He couldn't expect more than that from the other boy. He couldn't.

"I think," Mycroft said slowly as they continued to walk. "That you need to stand up to them more."

But Greg was shaking his head. "I can't risk that. I could lose the scholarship that I'm here on." That was Greg's greatest fear. Losing the scholarship he worked so hard for. So yes, he was glad that Mycroft wanted to help, especially if it meant more touching, but he couldn't risk _that_.

A hard edge came into Mycroft's eyes as he said, "Don't worry about that. I can take care of it easily. That's not even an option for you. You aren't going anywhere." And it was talk like that that made Greg wonder what other secrets Mycroft was hiding besides the fact that he thought he was a bit chubby.

"I just... I can't. I can't. They'll...get me too easy," Greg said, a bit defeated.

Mycroft looked at him strange. "_You're_implying... that you would be doing it alone, whereas _I am not_." He paused. "Why?"

Greg blinked. "Wait...you want to help?"

"Of course Gregory. Don't be silly. I wouldn't go through all this trouble just to leave you on your own. Not everyone is this special, you know."

Greg felt his heart stutter as they came to a stop by the front door of Baker House. "I...I am?"

Mycroft felt that twist of affection in his heart again and said softly, "Yes Gregory, you are. I have the sad feeling that you aren't told that enough." He smiled then. "No worries. We'll fix that."

Mycroft turned to walk up to the house, leaving Greg to stare in awe at the boy who had just offered to stand by him against the bullies because he was (quote-unquote) _special_. He ran his fingers through his silver, curly hair and then stopped because it had been getting into his eyes as of late and-

Oh.

_Oh_.

Greg could work something out here. A test of sorts. Get Mycroft to agree to his next question and see how genuine he is about his offer to help. His odd claim at friendship. All of it.

"Mycroft!" Greg shouted just before the other boy walked into the house.

Mycroft stopped, acknowledged the odd fact that he really did like the sound of Greg's voice, and then turned around. "Yes, Gregory?"

Greg took a deep breath. "Come with me to cut my hair this weekend?"

Mycroft blinked. He stared. And then, because he just couldn't resist, he answered, "Always. Just tell me when." And then he walked back inside, a smile on his face.

One that just happened to match Greg's where he was outside.

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><p><strong>So. How was that? Mormor took over. Sorry. Erg. <strong>

**But! Slashinesses next time I'm back!**

**Review?**


	6. All In All

**I am _so_ _sorry_ for the end of this. That is all I can say. Read on mein liebes. Read on.**

**Beta'd by the wonder full hollydemovoi on TUMBRL! Or it will be when she gets it...HEHEHEHE**

**Current Song: The Shrine/An Argument by the Fleet Foxes**

**Current Thought: It is 4:20 AM. And I have officially not slept for...about 20 hours? Yeah. There can't be healthy. I can't bring myself to care though... Also, listening to the Fleet Foxes sing about green apples growing on green-apple trees. No. Fucking. Shit. Guiz. *lolz* Why do I find this funny?**

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><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part Six<strong>

Greg pulled his cap on the yelled, "Mycroft!" into their room where the other boy was getting dressed still. What the hell could be taking him this long? It was just a trip to the barbers. He didn't have to dress like he was going to see the queen.

Greg himself was in a worn pair of denims, his scuffed up trainers, a The Clash t-shirt over a thermal and a hooded jumper. He'd thrown the cap on as a last minute thing, determined to hide his messy hair from the world. Maybe those kids did have a point; after all, even he had to admit that his hair needed a good cut. Maybe he'd dye it as well...

He shook his head. He'd see. Right now, he just really wanted Mycroft to hurry up so they could go. He was already nervous enough as it is and Mycroft taking his sweet time was not helping. He knocked on their shared room again and said, "For the love of Pete, Mycroft what-"

The door was promptly yanked open and Mycroft was there, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. He was wearing black denims, with black, laced-up boots and a grey button-up with his coat thrown over it all. In his hand was a black brolly. It was the first time Greg had ever seen the other boy in anything other than a three piece suit or school uniform. He'd even worn a relaxed version of a suit to his game that one time, but this? This was something entirely new.

And, God help him, Greg _liked_it.

Greg swallowed and said, "Took you long enough." Thankfully, his voice came out evenly. He was sure it wouldn't do to sound wrecked because your friend happened to be the most attractive bloke you knew. That didn't sound very friendly.

Mycroft, though, blushed a bit, his cheeks coloring, Greg's eyes following the pink flush all the way down until it disappeared underneath Mycroft's unbuttoned collar. "Yes, well," Mycroft said, "I wasn't sure what the occasion called for. Harry did me the favor of telling Irene I was going to go in my usual attire and she set me straight, picked something out." He looked down at his outfit uncertainly. "I do hope this is appropriate."

Greg blinked, allowed himself to give Mycroft a quick up down and nodded. He gave the other boy a thumbs up. "Perfect."

Mycroft still frowned. "Hmm. It does show my stomach, although all the black hides the fat quite well-"

"You're _not_fat," Greg said. It had been something to repeat this last week and it wasn't like Sherlock helped with all the fat jokes.

Mycroft looked at him dubiously. "I assure you, I am overweight."

Greg smiled a bit and shook his head. "Nah, you're just... pleasantly plump." And he gave Mycroft's hidden ribs a poke, making the other boy huff with a stifled laughter and bat his hands away.

"Come, come now Gregory. Enough of this. Let us depart or you'll be late for your appointment." Mycroft gave a rare smile and made his way around Greg, heading for the stairs and the ground floor. He followed the older boy, knowing he was right. His appointment was in an hour and they still had to get the car.

They'd be using Mycroft's car, a sleek black Jaguar that he was allowed to have on campus because he was a senior. Greg wanted desperately to ask if the Holmes' were rich or something, but it was rude and he wouldn't dare be rude, not to Mycroft who was turning out to be all sorts of wonderful.

Greg found Mycroft downstairs whispering something to Anthea who was tapping away at the Blackberry that seemed attached to her hands. She was nodding and gave a flash of a smile that Mycroft glared at and she eventually waved him off. As they conversed, probably making last minute whatever-it-was-they-did, Greg looked around the rec-room they were in. On a bean-bag in the corner, Sally was reading a novel, Anderson on the other bean-bag across from her, on his laptop. On the low couch, John was also on his laptop, probably blogging about his latest adventure with Sherlock. Those two disappeared on occasion and returned filthy and ragged with grins the size of Liverpool on their faces. Harry and Irene were headed up to the library. Molly and Mike had gone into town to hospital. Molly's cousin worked in the morgue and was willing to let them in for a few hours on the weekends.

Sebastian came down the stairs just as Mycroft and Anthea finalized their talk, Jim trailing behind him. He had his rifle case strapped to his back and his camo Firing Squad outfit on. Now that he looked, John had his Squad gear at his feet as well and his outfit on too. The younger boy put his laptop aside and nodded to Sebastian as he walked into the room. Oh. So they were going to practice now. Greg hoped they wouldn't try to shoot each other.

"I hate you," Jim said, plopping down onto the couch.

Sebastian sighed but was otherwise unmoved by the other boy's words. He dropped a kiss to Jim's forehead. "Of course you do."

"I really do," Jim said then, casually. "I hate you so much, I'll probably poison you're food." He held up a brown-bag lunch. "Oh," and he smiled venomously, "I packed you a lunch."

Surprisingly, Sebastian too it, or maybe it wasn't such of a surprise at all. Greg though, he was freaked out a bit and Mycroft made a face as he walked over to him and Anthea disappeared off into the unknown place of wherever Anthea disappears when she isn't needed.

"I'll shoot you in the face if it is poisoned," Sebastian said, sounding bored. "Or if you put bugs in it."

John rolled his eyes. "Can we please just go? Before Sherlock gets up here and throws a fit?"

"Where is that boring fish, anyway?" Jim asked curiously. "I love it when he plays hard to find. He acts not-boring for a change."

John gritted his teeth and responded, "Downstairs in the locker rooms. That's the only place Mycroft will let him do any experiments."

Jim got up. "Lovely. I'll just see if he wants to play a bit of chess then. Maybe have a cuppa." And he waltzed away, whistling the tune to the Bee Gees 'Staying Alive'. Sebastian nodded toward the door. John followed him out.

Mycroft sighed and grabbed Greg by the elbow as he followed them out as well. "I can just imagine the chess game that is going to turn into," he said, addressing Jim and Sherlock. "They'll mope about their respective boyfriends being gone and then stare at each other and deduce things and be rude and then forget they're enemies for a while and blow things up together before they remember and go on the defensive again." Greg could see it too; they'd do that mature-bickering thing, watching each other closely over the chess board. It'd be weird if they weren't all used to that sort of behavior by now.

They made their way to the car-park across the campus and to Mycroft's Jag. It's a sleek, black thing and Greg almost doesn't want to breathe when he sits in the passenger's seat. It's smells like Mycroft on the inside, is warm and cozy for such a posh car. Mycroft seems to lovingly stroke the wheel before starting her up and backing out of the lot, heading out of the school grounds and onto the main road. Greg's hair-dresser was only twenty minutes away, but it gave them time to relax and enjoy the scenery as they passed. After all, the last time Greg had seen the city was when his parents had driven through it from their small town to drop him off at school at the start of the year.

"Beautiful, isn't?" Mycroft said from beside him. When Greg turned to look, his eyes were focused on the road. "In a modern sort of way. All glass and concrete and metal."

"But that doesn't make it any less gorgeous," Greg responded and stared at Mycroft before realizing he was doing so and looked away. Shite. Now this was just becoming embarrassing.

"I don't think I ever quite said it did," Mycroft responded, none the wiser for all of Greg's staring.

They made it so that Greg had ten minutes before he was due for his cut. This was it. He had no idea what he was going to do with his hair, but still. He needed to do something with it. He took a deep breath, smiled at Mycroft, then lead the way inside.

The parlor was a small place, almost a hole in the wall. It was Greg's first time there, Mycroft's too seeing as they'd just picked a place out of the phone book. Still: it was clean, had a few customers and the woman had seemed genuinely nice over the phone when Greg had made his appointment. He walked up to the front desk, Mycroft taking a seat and folding one leg neatly over the other as he waited, hands clasped in his lap.

"Greg Lestrade," he said to the woman from the phone when she asked his name. She smiled and nodded to a woman all the way in the back of the small establishment.

"That is Zen. She'll take you," the woman said with a flirtatious smile. Greg merely nodded and then gestured to Zen with his head addressing Mycroft, who nodded and got up, moving to a chair closer to them in the back.

Zen was 5 foot 2 inches, of smiling woman. She wasn't super thin, just the right size for a girl to still be confident in herself, and she wasn't over the age of at least 30. Her hair was black with white on the tips and cut into a short shag, like a mop on her head. She wore glasses and had bright, hazel eyes. She nodded to Greg as he sat in her chair.

"Gregory, right? Do you prefer Greg or...?" Greg stared for a moment. Her accent was a thick American one, probably from somewhere right out of New York City. Mycroft didn't look surprised in the least; of course he didn't. He probably had known the second he sat down, the second he walked in even.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, Greg is fine," he finally answered.

She smiled and took off his cap gently then, letting his silver curls tumble down and around his ears. He tried not to blush when she gave a long, low whistle. "My, my Mr. Lestrade. What have we here? This natural?"

"Yeah," he said a bit shyly.

"Oh honey, no need to get shy on me." She snapped her gum and smiled. "This is awesome hair. Wouldn't you say?" She was addressing Mycroft who was smiling a little and nodding.

"Yes. I would say," he responded.

"See?" Zen reassured. "It's the crazy curly mess that we have to worry about," she said when she saw Greg looking at the hair dyes. "Unless... unless you really want to dye it."

Greg stared at the shade of chestnut he'd been eyeing since they walked in. Maybe he'd blend in more if he just... He caught Mycroft's eye in the mirror. There was a disapointed, sad look on his face and when he saw Greg looking, he made his face blank and looked away. Greg turned the swivel chair and faced Mycroft.

"Mycroft?" he asked. "What do you think?"

The other boy visibly swallowed and said tightly, "You should do whatever you think is best, Gregory." Which wasn't the answer Greg was looking for. Hell, it wasn't even technically an answer.

He turned to Zen who was looking between the two of them with a curious look on her face. "Can we... can we have a minute?" he asked.

She seemed to snap out of whatever it was she had been sucked into. "Yeah, sure. Knock yourself out, kiddo. Just holler for me when you're all set and ready to go." She gave his shoulder a quick pat, then disappeared out a side door, pulling a carton of cigarettes from her coat pocket.

Greg stood up and walked over to Mycroft, sitting beside him. Every line of Mycroft's body was tense, tight, stiff, still and frozen, held in place by sheer will. Greg placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, feeling the muscles relax a bit.

"My?" he said, using the nick-name he hadn't dared to use until now. "I know this may seem trivial to you, but it really does matter to me. Do you think, in your heart, that I should dye it?" Greg already had a thought of what he wanted to do, but what Mycroft thought really did matter. "Honestly? Because your opinion matters."

Mycroft swallowed and then turned so his body was angled toward Greg. "Honestly?" Greg nodded. That was all he wanted, some honesty from the boy who was turning out to be his best friend, who he might be falling for a little bit.

Ok. Maybe a lot.

Mycroft sighed, hoping he wasn't going to scare Greg off from whatever it was they had with his answer. "Honestly... I don't think you should dye it. I know that things might be easier for you if you did but..." And now he laughed a bit. "Well, you don't see Jim taking his ADHD pills or his bipolar medicine. You don't see John getting a girlfriend, or Sherlock taking his anti-depressants. Harry doesn't wear skirts just because she's a girl and Irene takes male clients even though she's a lesbian." He stopped there, tried to sum up his feelings in a much simpler way. "What I'm trying to say is that your hair is a part of what makes you unique. Special. Taking that away just to blend into the norm will be letting all those tossers who have ever said a word against you win. And that... it'll take away from your person." He looked at Greg and then carefully fingered a silvery lock. "And I actually quite like the color on you. I don't think it would work on just anyone else."

Greg felt his breath catch in his throat, his chest tightening. Oh the things he wanted to say, he wanted to admit. The faraway look in Mycroft's eyes as he had spoken had just gotten under Greg's skin, made him want to hug the other boy or, or something, just anything to get closer, to hear him speak like that Greg simply nodded, swallowed and nodded and called for Zen out the propped open door, never once moving from his place beside Mycroft or looking away from the other boy, who stared with the same intensity as Greg was giving him.

Zen came back in, putting out her cigarette as she walked in and she gave the boys a smile, Greg finally breaking the spell they were under and looking over at her.

"So, are we ready or what? What'll it be?" she asked with a knowing look in her eye. Greg wondered, vaguely, if she had heard their entire conversation through the crack in the door.

"No dying. But a cut is in order," Greg said. "Although," he admitted a bit reluctantly, "I haven't the slightest on what to do. Especially with it this color. What'll look good?"

She surveyed him then patted the barber chair for him to join her. He nodded, got up and threw a smile over to Mycroft before sitting down. Mycroft merely watched from where he sat. Zen leaned forward and whispered her idea into Greg's ear. It was a style that was common enough, yet he'd never tried. He nodded his consent anyway, wondering why she was being a bit secretive about it, but deciding to go along with it anyway.

She smiled and said, "Great. Let's get crack-a-lacking, then." And then she looked over at Mycroft and casually said, "You know, there's a great book store next door. You look like the kind of guy who'd really appreciate Lord Byron and Walt Whitman. Maybe even Oscar Wilde?"

Mycroft seemed to catch on and said casually said, "Yes. I do actually, thank you." He turned to Greg and said, "If you don't mind...?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. Tell me if they have anything by Blake or Keats in there, yeah?" Mycroft nodded and disappeared. Greg then turned to Zen and said, "And you sent him out because...?"

She grinned. "I am keen on this turning out as a surprise for the both of you. Mind as well send away who I can since I can't just keep your head."

"Ah," he said, not quite getting it but letting the odd American woman have her way anyway. "So... how are we going to accomplish... this?" This being his new hair style.

She smiled. "Let me worry about that ok?" Greg nodded to Zen, and let her work. As she went, he asked a few questions. "What does Zen stand for, anyhow?"

"Zenevieva," she responded with a chuckle as she snipped with her scissors, chunks of silver curly-ques falling to the floor around her feet. "It's Celtic for-"

"-pale," Greg finished. "My dad's Celt," he said by way of explanation. "You're American though; how'd you come to London?"

She shrugged as she worked. "Got bored of home, I guess. Needed to get away. I had a friend who came here for school. Damn boy got into Oxford. He was a genius."

"Was?"

Zen didn't meet his eyes in the mirror as she cut this time. "He had AIDS. Needed someone to help him when it got bad. He died a few years ago, two years after his partner. They convinced me to open up this damn place right before his partner died."

"You're the owner? Oh, and sorry for the loss," he said directly afterward.

"Thank you, and yes, I am. This here little run-down shin-dig is _mine_ and I am damn proud of it. No matter how weird it gets." It suspiciously reminded Greg of Mycroft's earlier speech, leading him to believe she had heard what they had been discussing, but it didn't really bother him. He kind of liked her, actually. In a maternal sort of way.

She put the scissors down then and said, "Alright, I'm gonna have to use the electric razor now, ok? So hold still. I don't want to nick that pretty little scalp of yours, yeah?"

He almost nodded but then said, "Yes," making her smile. She set to work on his head and then she was done. She smiled, ran her fingers through her masterpiece and then got some gel out, squirted a generous amount on her fingers and then ran them through Greg's hair, making it stand up in neat little spikes. He had more than a buzz cut but graciously less hair than before. It was wonderful, standing neat and straight on his head in the new spikes she had made with the gel. He had to get some now, to style his hair a bit, make it spiky. He quite liked it.

"Well, tiger, what's the verdict?" Zen asked playfully, smiling at him in the mirror.

Greg blinked then smiled. His confidence just... skyrocketed. Because for the first time, he liked what he saw in the mirror and it had nothing to do with just a hair cut and everything to do with the conversations he'd held in the last hour.

"I... I like it," was all he could say. "I really, really do."

"Well, pumpkin, I'm glad. The short, spiky thing works better with the silver, don't you think?" Zen asked sincerely. He nodded because it was true. He was still grey and silver in varying shades and degrees, but it looked a lot more fresh and new with this style to it. It was pretty awesome.

Greg spun around in his chair to thank her when he caught sight of Mycroft, having just walked in and having only seen Greg when he turned around.

"You likey?" Zen asked him with a smile that soon disappeared at the look on his face. Mycroft looked like a fish out of water, a mix of shock and something else warring on his features.

He simply stared at Greg for a few moments before the latter asked, "Mycroft? Are you alright?"

Instead of answering, Mycroft walked out of the parlor without saying a word. Greg stared at the place he'd just been. He didn't like it. Of course he didn't, Greg could never just catch a break, could he? God he had been so stupid to think that someone like Mycroft would think differently of him just because of a hair-cut. How stupid of him. How stupid.

"Well that was better than I could have hoped." Greg turned to look at Zen in horror and shock.

"What?" he demanded in a whisper-yell. He was nearly suffocating with panic.

She raised an eyebrow. "Honey, please tell me you aren't thinking he choked because he didn't like it." When Greg merely stared in terror she sighed. "Of course you are. Look, he freaked out because he liked it. A lot. You could see his blush from here. He's just overwhelmed by all the sexy he was bombarded with," she finished matter-of-factly with a wink.

Greg laughed. It was all he could do because he wanted her to be right and really, she was a wonderful woman, sweet and nice and supportive. And she had just met him. "Oh god, I hope you're right," he said, allowing himself to say the words he'd been keeping for so long, finally admitting to someone other than himself that yes, he liked Mycroft a lot more than he should.

"I am. Go chase after that boyfriend of yours and see for yourself," Zen said, turning away.

"He's not..." but Greg really didn't have the heart or the decency to finish his thought. Let her think what she wanted. He wasn't a good enough person to correct her.

"Go on," she said, shooing him.

Greg smiled, paid her and left a generous tip, one that had her chuckling and thanking him, when really, he thought it should be the other way around. He should be thanking her. And he did.

"Thanks," he said. "And, uh, not for the haircut. Or, well, not alone, anyway."

She smirked. "I know, kiddo. Now get, get!"

Greg smiled and high-tailed it out of there. She'd given him her number as a last minute thing, in case he wanted to talk. He was told to share it with Mycroft. He definitely would.

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><p>It had started to rain while Greg was inside and he found Mycroft in the park across the street, standing under his open brolly. He shoved his cap back on to protect his now easily-exposed head and ran through the deluge and to his... his friend.<p>

Mycroft turned at the sound of his splashing and squelching , eyes widening at seeing Greg absolutely soaked. He held and arm out, grabbing Greg quickly and pulling him under, out of the rain. Greg cracked a dimpled smile, unknowingly setting Mycroft's heart aflutter. This was how Greg should always be: gorgeous and smiling and happy, rain dripping from his eyelashes. Not sad and dejected like those prats and wankers at school made him feel.

"Are you alright?" Greg asked, right off the bat. Mycroft liked how he got down to business so quickly putting aside all pleasantries and just getting to the God-honest truth.

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. And I... apologize for my earlier behavior. I did not mean to offend you in any way, you must believe me in that."

Greg smiled, because, it was ok. It was. He couldn't expect everything from Mycroft and he was too timid with himself and his self image after so much battering that he couldn't bring himself to take Zen's words about Mycroft seriously. So he shrugged a bit as well.

"S'alright. It's just hair. If you aren't fond of it, then-"

Mycroft cut Greg off with a look of horror. "Not fond of-no Gregory, you misunderstand me. It's not that I don't like it or disapprove of it, it's just that..." And now Mycroft carefully reached up to his cap and asked, "May I?" Greg nodded, trying not to show his sudden shortness of breath. Mycroft slowly removed his cap with his free hand, putting it clumsily on his own head since his other hand was occupied with the umbrella that was currently keeping them dry. Greg laughed and reached over to straighten it out.

"There," he said softly, letting his hands trail down Mycroft's cheek a bit as he let go, the cap on straight.

Mycroft swallowed, let his free fingers run through Greg's short, spiky, silver hair. He sighed contentedly. "I quite like it actually," he said. "Your hair, I mean," he unnecessary clarified. "It... it looks, well, it looks...nice."

Greg smiled, the feeling of Mycroft's finger-tips grazing his scalp sending little bolts of electricity through him. "You think so?" He felt a little trill of hope beating in his chest to the unsteady rhythm of his heart.

Mycroft nodded, moving a bit closer, swallowing hard, his heart beating so hard he could feel his pulse vibrating in his throat, thundering in his ears. "Very much so. It... suits you. Fresh. New. Special."

Greg leaned in, drawn to the other boy and his words like a moth to the light. His eyes blinked, heavy-lidded, half mast, centered on Mycroft's thin, pink mouth. "You-you keep saying that. Calling me _special_that is."

Mycroft let his hand fall from Greg's hair to his cheek, stroking it with a finger. "It's true," he whispered. Their breath mingled, puffed into the others face, Greg feeling as though he would throw up from the nerves, Mycroft not far off himself. They moved in, just shy of each other's lips and then-

_**"DO YOU LOVE ME, do you love me? DO YOU LOVE ME, do you love me? DO YOU LOVE ME, do you love me? NOW-THAT I-CAN DANCE!"**_

They sprung away from each other, Greg ending up back out in the rain, Mycroft fumbling for his phone in his coat pocket, cursing Jim for messing with his mobile and ring tone. He flicked it open, looking apologetically at Greg and nodding with his head that he come back under the Greg stayed out under the rain, letting the chilly drops pelt he had almost just kissed Mycroft Holmes and...

He didn't know how to _feel_about that.

Mostly that he wanted to take out the _almost_and replace it with _did_.

Mycroft was speaking into the phone, his voice sounding a little high strung and then he hung up, looking at Greg with a dreading twist to his mouth. But it wasn't at what had just happened, it was at what he had just been told over the phone. Bad news, Greg could read in the lines of his jaw, face, body. Bad news was just screaming from the look Mycroft was giving him.

"What?" Greg asked, rushing back under the umbrella. "What, what happened?"

Mycroft really did want to kiss him, wanted to appreciate a hot mouth on cold, rain-chilled skin, the stretch of a shirt gone see-through from the rain across a toned chest, nipples perked and wonderful. But the news Anthea had just delivered to him via mobile was too jarring to do any of that.

"It's Jim. And Sherlock." And then he added regretfully, "And John and Sebastian."

"What, what happened?" Greg said, getting frustrated. "Mycroft, what the hell happened?"

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it, drifting away. Greg grabbed him by the forearms and said, "Mycroft Holmes, look at me. Look. At. Me." He finally locked his grey eyes with warm chocolate brown ones. Greg sighed in relief. "What happened? What did Anthea tell you?" It had to be Anthea because only he, Anthea, Sherlock and John had Mycroft's number and the former two never used it unless they were in trouble.

Mycroft blinked and something that might have been tears welled in his eyes. "Mycroft?" Greg said, his voice cracking, lost as to what to do. What cold be so bad, it elicited this kind of response from this man of ice?

"The pool," he said, dazed.

"What about it?" Greg asked. Mycroft looked him in the eye then and said something that Greg would never forget.

"Sherlock and Jim. They blew up the school pool. Absolutely leveled it."

"Oh," Greg said, relaxing. "That's it? I thought i-"

"While they and Sebastian and John were still inside. Greg, they were all inside and the building collapsed. _They're still in there_."

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><p><strong>So... should I describe what happens while they're stuck under there or... I don't know, just skip to after it? HUH HUH? Should I write a Mycroft freak-out or just... not? Do you guiz think i can handle it? HUH HUH?<strong>

**Who wants to share? Please? I would very much appreciate it, thanks!**

**REVIEW FO' REALZ, GUIZ.**

**Peas and tank joos.**


	7. You're Just

**So. Sorry this wasn't posted yesterday.**

**BUT. On another note... You guiz are so awesome. All these reviews make me smile and want to write. Another chapter will be potted later on tonight in honor of you awesome readers and because I'm torturing you.**

**There is no kissing in this chapter.**

**I know, I know, I'm sorry! I want to make this oh so painful for you all because I'm a cruel, cruel bitch. **

**No, no. I'm kidding. I love you guiz and I'm really enjoying your reviews and thoughts. Really. I took your advice and wrote the Mycroft breakdown. But that's all I'm telling you about it. It happens. I really hope it's to your liking. I tried ok? I tried.**

**Also: My sister helped me with the Mormor in this one. She had some really funny ideas and I needed to use them. She's great to brainstorm with. So. I hope you guiz enjoy this. I really do. And I hope I did a good enough job to live up to what you guiz have been saying about this fic in your reviews.**

**Current Song: Shake It Off by Florence + The Machine**

**Current Thought: Gonna break for food and pod-ficing but I will be back loves. Till then, re-read like hell and enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part Seven<strong>

Fuck. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. Jim had obviously lied about what the fuck that bomb was made out of. It wasn't even supposed to be a bomb. Just a small, controlled explosion. How could Sherlock have been that stupid? How? Last time he was every going to put any stock in something James Moriarty said.

Sherlock coughed a bit, looking through the haze of cement dust and brick. The air smelled like pure chlorine and brick-dust and he found himself choking on it with every breath. But he didn't care, he had to find John. John who had shoved him out of the way and into the pool, the water absorbing most of the shock from the explosion and keeping Sherlock relatively safe, although he had hit the bottom with a thud and was bleeding profusely from his forehead. That was nothing compared to how John must be faring. John, _his_ John. Sherlock had to find him.

"John! John? _JOHN_!"

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><p>Sebastian spit out blood and groaned as he rolled over, looking to the side where he had been lying only minutes before. His things were smashed now, and although he didn't pride himself in being a guy who was overly concerned with the material, he did feel a pang of sadness at the thought that his rifle was in pieces under the section of wall that had collapsed.<p>

But, first things first: Where the hell was Jim?

Oh, Seb was going to end him, he fucking was, no matter how good the sex was, no matter how brilliant that man was. He was a fucking idiot. _Semtex_. Sem-fucking-tex. He was going to kill Jim Moriarty if that blast hadn't already. Yes, Sebastian had been the one to shoot the bundle of wire and metal and explosives, but he, along with everyone else, had been told it was going to be controlled. The look of manic satisfaction on Jim's face before he was blown backwards and the look of surprise and horror on John and Sherlock's faces as they realized they had been lied to had been warning enough for Seb.

So he was going to find Jim. And kill him. With his bare hands too. Mind as well. The bastard had gotten his favorite rifle destroyed. He was going to absolutely pay.

Or at least that's what Sebastian was going to do. Until he actually found Jim under some rubble. He could already hear the ambulance and fire department and police sirens outside, people yelling, trying to get into the small, destroyed building. But Jim was lying on his back, feet straight up in the air, his Italian leather shoes dusty and scuffed, one with a rip at the toe. He wasn't going to be happy about that. Seb, quite frankly, couldn't care less. He walked over to the man boy who was only now starting to come to, groaning a bit, then laughing weakly when Seb levered him up in his arms.

Jim smiled dazedly. "Look Seb, I did it. We, I mean we did it. Isn't it beautiful?"

Seb growled and checked the other boy out. He felt wetness at the back of Jim's head and when he took his hand away it was covered in blood. "_Damnit_, Jim," he swore. "What _the fuck_ were you thinking?"

"I was thinking – that I wanted – to see – the lights," Jim ground out as Sebastian grabbed him by the waist and started to drag him out of there, his feet and therefore shoes, getting more wrecked as they slid along the ground. "Seb," Jim said, his pupils pin-pricked. He still managed to sound annoyed though. "You're _ruining_ my shoes."

Sebastian didn't even stop walking, he simply slung Jim over his shoulder, the smaller boys torso hanging over his back limply. Jim's face was pressed to his back and he pounded his fists weakly against Sebastian's back, saying, "Sebastian, this is wrong. This is worse. I think I'm going to vomit. Seb. Sebby. _Sebastian_. Sebby. Seb."

The sniper-boy continued to walk, grimacing at the annoying sounds coming out of Jim's mouth. "Vomit and I leave you here," he said as he fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it haphazardly on a piece of burning debris. Jim didn't shut up though, so Seb twisted a bit and handed the other boy his cigarette. "Shut up and smoke that. It'll keep you from passing out."

Jim took the cigarette, ever mumbling. "Shut up? Me? Who does he think he is, the lackey. I'll show him." He did smoke though.

And it became blissfully quiet.

* * *

><p>Sherlock yelled again, coughing up soot. Things were burning and melting and it was bad. John was nowhere. The pool area wasn't even that big, but it looked so much more confusing blown up.<p>

"John! Answer me, please John!" Sherlock tried again. Oh God, John could be dead and it was his entire fault. How could he be so stupid as to listen to Jim Moriarty? Never again, he vowed. Never again, it wasn't safe for John.

"John! John where are-"

"Sh-sherlock? Is that…" A cough. "Sherlock…" Weak. Quiet.

To the left and sticking halfway out from under a large section of ceiling was John. John who was covered in soot and blood, his arm or shoulder so obviously broken, on his side, a large portion of concrete on his legs. His eyes were weakly opening and Sherlock threw himself down beside him.

"John? Shit, John oh God, John I'm so sorry, I'm so, _so_ sorry. Oh God, can you move?" he babbled.

John shook his head. "N-no. I think… I think my leg or hip-I think it's broken," he said, his voice cracking, tears making clean tracks down his face as they fell.

Sherlock wanted to hit someone. Mainly Jim. "Fuck. _Fuck_. John, hold on, someone's going to come for us, I heard the police and ambulances, they're coming to get us." He had, much like Sebastian had, heard the authority's sirens. They just needed to hold on. Sherlock scooted over near John's head, putting it in his lap. "I'll be right here, I promise. I won't leave."

John tried to protest, tried to tell Sherlock to go get help, but the other boy wouldn't move. It was then that Sherlock saw a shadow hunched over a bit, going around them. He squinted, trying to make out the figures. It looked like there was someone slung over another person's shoulders. His eyes widened as he realized who it was. He shifted a bit to try and get a better look.

"Sherlock, what are you-" John started.

"Moran! Moriarty! You _bastards_! Get _back_ here!" Sherlock yelled.

Sebastian stopped and turned. "What?" he yelled over.

"Help me get this off of him!" Sherlock said, gesturing to John.

Sebastian looked at them, stuck, but together, just like he was with Jim, Jim who bleeding out and slung over his shoulders. They would be fine, as long as they had each other. He shook his head, much to Sherlock's chagrin. "No. They'll come in for you. I need to get him out." He didn't apologize because he honestly didn't mean to. He had nothing to apologize for.

Sherlock's face scrunched in anger until John said softly, "Sherlock. Look at Jim, over his shoulder." The back of Jim's head could be seen, matted with blood. Sherlock's face didn't soften at the sight, not one bit. "Let them be," John said. "I'll be fine."

And with that, Sebastian nodded John, who understood a bit what he was feeling, and walked away from the other two.

* * *

><p>Mycroft was silent the entire drive back and he was so tense that Greg was afraid that if they went over a bump, Mycroft would snap at the action of being jostled a bit. They didn't say a word to each other, and mostly because Greg had no idea <em>what<em> to say to him. What do you say to someone when they discover that their little brother has had a building collapsed on top of him?

Nothing, apparently.

"Mycroft-" he tried.

"_Gregory, please_," he said coldly, his face blank. "_Shut up_."

Greg's mouth snapped closed and he looked straight ahead. He chose not to take the comment to heart, judging by the way Mycroft's hands were so tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles were white. After a few more minutes and a few more exits, Mycroft finally turned his head a bit and spoke.

"I'm sorry that was-"

"Its fine," Greg said as gently as he could. "I get it. Just… just _drive_ Mycroft."

And he did. He silently drove them all the way back to the school's campus and ditched the car right in front of the destroyed pool-house with the other police cars. There were a few of them and two ambulances, along with a fire-truck. They were putting out the fires around the area. Half of the ceiling had collapsed, the doorway a mess of cinder-blocks and metal and steel. Glass was everywhere and there looked like there was no way to get inside, where it must be worse. The smell of chlorine was everywhere though, and there was a slight tremor in Mycroft's hand as he got out of the car, gripping his brolly.

Around the area of destruction, there was a crowd of students and teachers alike, all right at the edge of the caution tape they had put up, just to block off the area. Mycroft dismissed it, going right under it after pushing people out of the way, Greg following close behind. A few people stared at his new hair-style, but Greg was ignoring them, because they honestly weren't important. He followed Mycroft, the other boy going straight to the officer in charge.

"What are they doing to get those boys out?" Mycroft asked coolly, not even twitching. It looked like his mouth was barely moving.

The officer turned to look at him, surprised that he had gotten through. "Look, son, you can't be here-"

"I can be where I please." He glared and said, "Mycroft Holmes."

Apparently that meant something because the man said, "Oh. Sorry sir." He swallowed. "We're getting a team together and they're going in now. We don't know how many survivors there are." Mycroft's lip twitched at that and Greg felt his stomach drop. This wasn't very good at all. "So far as we know, there were only four boys in there when it happened, though we can't figure out how. Gas leak, they're saying."

Greg wasn't really surprised when Mycroft didn't correct the man, but kept quiet about the boys blowing the place up. "Yes, I imagine it was. Four, you said? One of them is my brother, Detective. I expect to be updated on the goings-on of your search, is that clear?"

The man's eyes widened. "Your…? Yes. Yes sir, of course." People started yelling, asking questions and the officer looked hassled, turning away. "A moment sir," and he gave an acknowledging nod to Greg. The detective turned to the crowd and said, "Look, you all have to take a few steps back please. And we don't know much right now. It would be appreciated if you could just-" The students and teachers cut him off with more yelling and questions, fears and hopes. He tried, he really did, but they wouldn't listen, a few actually trying to get under the tape and having to be taken away by other officers. Nothing was going to get done if this was left to happen.

Greg didn't know what it was. Maybe aggravation at the school's inhabitant's stupidity. Maybe he really had grown attached to the four idiots that were trapped in there and he really wanted them out. Maybe it was the absolute empty hopelessness he saw in Mycroft's eyes that the other boy refused to show on his face. Whatever it was, he was glad for it. It felt a lot like standing up to them all.

He walked over to where everyone was crowded and, before anyone got a negative comment out, he yelled, "_Stand back_, you morons, and _shut up_. Did you not _hear_ the man? They need you to _get back_. You tossers _aren't fucking helping_. So stand_. The fuck_. BACK!"

There was a moment of absolute silence, and then, without a word, the entire student body took a giant step backwards and slammed their mouths shut. Many looked at Greg in awe, some in fear, others in confusion. A small ripple of whispers went up in the crowd, saying things like, "Is that Greg Lestrade?" and "Nah, can't be," or "Holy fuck mate, I think I just pissed m'self."

Greg stared at them all a bit angrily and then turned on his heel. Mycroft had only a small line between his eyebrows. The other officers though, looked shocked.

"Holy fuck, boy, than-"

"Thanking me won't get them out of there," Greg growled, cutting them man off. "Do your job." The officers scattered, but not the detective. He went up to Greg, gave him an appraising look.

"What's your name son?" he asked, ignoring the look Mycroft spared him.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Gregory Lestrade."

The man nodded. "Well, Gregory Lestrade. You may have a future at the Met, the way you're going. Look me up if you're interested. Ask for Detective Inspector Steven Gatiss." He nodded to Greg and then went off to supervise his men.

Greg swallowed and then nodded to Mycroft. "Right then," he said. They could ponder that later.

Suddenly, there were shouts from over near the entrance of the leveled building. Greg and Mycroft shared a quick look then ran over, stopping as two figures walked out, one slung over the others shoulders. The carrier groaned then swore like a sailor. Or a sniper.

"Sebastian?" Greg said. The boy in question looked up, face streaked with blood and nodded to Greg. He ignored the officers and medics who ran over to them. He wouldn't talk to them, Mycroft and Greg knew. Mycroft waved a hand at the officers, saying they would handle it, to keep looking for John and Sherlock.

Sebastian stopped beside the ambulance they were standing near, a medic looking him over. He, naturally, ignored her. "Lestrade. Holmes," he said gruffly.

Jim piped up from the back, "Let me down, Sebastian." Instead, Seb turned around so Jim was facing Mycroft and Greg. "That works too," he conceded.

"Where are they?" Mycroft said tightly. "I will _end_ you and your friend if my brother and his boyfriend are found dead. I will _end_ you, James Moriarty. It will be painful and it _will not_ be quick. See if I'm lying to you, you twit. Speak. Tell me _now_." He showed no expression on his face, and Greg was starting to get a bit worried.

Jim though, stared at them blankly, then said, "Seb, translate. All I got from that was torture or something. He was using words that screamed _caring_ and you know how I feel about that. Can't understand a word of that rubbish."

Sebastian said stiffly, "He wants to know where John and Sherlock are."

"Oh," Jim said, sounding genuinely confused. "Why didn't you just say? Tell them Seb."

Sebastian let Jim down first, surprisingly gentle, and then turned to Mycroft and Greg as Jim tried to regain his balance. "Last I saw, Sherlock's forehead was smashed and John was pinned under a section of wall or something." He shrugged then. "Like I said, last I saw."

"And you didn't help them?" Greg asked, horrified.

Jim glared. "Be realistic, Lestrade. It wasn't our problem. And I doubt a few teen aged boys could move that piece of cement." He blinked then, slightly swaying. "And _I_ am about to pass out." He turned to Moran. "Sebastian? _Catch me_." And with that, his eyes promptly rolled into his, and his entire body crashed backwards. Sebastian snatched him seemly right out of the air, lest he do more damage to his head than already done. More blood stained his hands as he carried Jim over to the gurney.

Greg and Mycroft watched as Sebastian roughly wrestled Jim's thin form onto the gurney, jostling him much to the surrounding medics' horror. When they went to help him he held up a hand. "Oh no," he said angrily. "It's fine. I'm just a bit cross with him, that's all." Sebastian expertly strapped Jim in, though he did it with more rough-handling and slamming than entirely necessary. No one dare go near him. He was obviously angry. When he was satisfied, he started to walk away before he remembered something and went back. Sebastian snatched the cigarette hanging from Jim's slack fingers and popped it into his mouth, lips pursed, taking a deep pull.

He started to walk away for good that time, even as a medic called after him, "Sir! Sir you can't leave, we still need to check up on you. Sir!" Sebastian simply flipped the man the bird and walked on in the direction of Baker House.

"He'll be fine," Mycroft said stonily. "Mr. Moriarty, it seems, is not. I suggest you spend your efforts on him, instead of wasting them on his partner, yes?" Then man sighed and went to check on Jim, moving him to the first ambulance and driving off to the nearest hospital with the rest of his team.

Mycroft and Greg were then called over by the detective. "They've found your brother and his friend, but… the younger Mr. Holmes is being a bit difficult."

The look in Mycroft's eyes was carefully guarded as he took the walkie-talkie offered to him by the detective and said, "Sherlock?" His voice was as steady as ever.

"Yes it's me," Sherlock said, sounding a bit irritated.

"Listen to them, Sherlock," was all Mycroft said.

"No," Sherlock responded adamantly. "They want me to leave John and go to the hospital while they get him out, but it's my fault he's stuck under there in the first place and I refuse to leave him. I'm not going until he gets out, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed, sounding weary. "Don't make me order you," he said, half-heartedly.

"I'd like to see you try," was Sherlock's stubborn response.

Before it could go on, Greg cut in. "Let him stay. We can wait until they come out, alright? There's no point in starting a war here. Pick your battles, Mycroft."

The other boy looked at him for a moment, blankly, then nodded. "Fine," he said to Sherlock. "We'll be waiting. Don't give them a hard time." He handed the device back to the detective who just sighed and nodded to them before leaving.

It took another twenty minutes to get Sherlock and John out, all the while Mycroft staying quiet. He said nary a word until he saw the curly head of his younger brother being carried out be a man from the fire department. John followed behind and right onto the ambulance, already on a gurney and passed out cold. He looked terrible. They both did.

As medics prepped John for travel, a woman sat Sherlock down at the back of the ambulance and threw a blanket over his shoulders as she cleaned out the wound on his forehead. Blood dripped into his eyes and matted his dark hair and she had to keep telling him to stop moving because he kept turning his head to get a look at John.

Mycroft strode up to them, Greg on his heels, the woman nodding to them and moving away after putting a butterfly band-aid on the gash on Sherlock's forehead to keep it closed for the time being. Mycroft lifted an eyebrow coolly. "Well?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have a concussion at the least. Maybe a sprained wrist. John though…" He looked back. "John is… he's…" Sherlock swallowed hard and blinked. "He's alive. That's what counts."

"What, may I ask, were you thinking?"Mycroft asked, too calm to be normal.

"I _wasn't_! Alright?" Sherlock snapped. "If that's what you're trying to point out, dear brother, then believe me, I _understand_ that. I wasn't thinking and now John and – and _everything_, it's just," he started to hyperventilate, his entire body shaking, the shock finally hitting him. He gritted his teeth and pulled the bright orange shock blanket closer around his shoulders.

Mycroft stared at him for a moment before walking forward and wrapping his arms very carefully around Sherlock's shoulders. His face was blank as Sherlock burst into tears and held on, sobbing and garbling halfway-coherent words. He said he was sorry a lot, not to tell their mother, that he didn't need the blanket, he wasn't in shock, he was just cold and shaky and worried and tired. Mycroft just nodded and slowly ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. His face didn't change at all and now Greg was really worried. There was something wrong here, he could feel it.

When Sherlock finally pulled away, he glared at Mycroft and made him swear not to tell anyone what had just happened. "That goes for you as well," he said to Greg too, his voice still thick.

Greg nodded. "Of course not, mate." The woman came back, nodded to Mycroft and Greg again and herded Sherlock away from the ambulance as they started to close the doors on John's still figure. At Sherlock's look of utter panic, she said gently, "I thought you'd rather sit up front with me. How does that sound?" Sherlock looked at her for a moment before nodding slowly and she helped him up into the seat, while murmuring, "There we go, you're fine."

Mycroft pulled her aside after she had closed the door and then walked over to Greg. "We may take our leave now," he said simply. Greg nodded, still weary of the other boy. His lack of emotion wasn't normal and he was just waiting for Mycroft to start yelling and screaming at people or something. But it didn't happen. He simply nodded for Greg to lead the way, which he did, right through the crowd of their peers who were starting to disperse anyway, so there weren't many people still left watching. Most just stared at him, surprised, unseeing, shocked. He ignored them and walked on. It was only when they were past the parking lot did he noticed the Jaguar was nowhere to be found, Anthea probably having moved it, and the they had to walk to Baker House.

Greg trudged on, turning onto the beaten path to their House, Mycroft close behind. It had stopped raining a while ago, so it was only a bit damp and chilly out. Fine for a walk. It was only half way there that Greg noticed Mycroft had taken hold of his elbow. A few moments later, he felt the other boy start to shake, and, once they were in the wooded area, far away from everyone else and still a long ways off from their rooms, Greg turned around and Mycroft Holmes broke down into tears much like his baby brother had done only minutes before.

Greg stood there in shock for a moment before instinct kicked in and he wrapped his arms around the other boy, slowly lowering them to the ground so that he was sitting on the ground and Mycroft was leaning into him, sobbing into his shoulders, absolutely shaking. It hadn't occurred to Greg that Mycroft had just been holding it all in so that he could appear strong and civil when no one else was. It had helped a lot, had gotten the job done, but even Greg could understand that he needed to let it all out at some point. He was just honored that Mycroft trusted him enough to be able to do it in front of him, trusted him enough to accept his comfort, to need it at all. It was a good feeling while at the same time a very bad one.

Because it felt like Greg's insides were being pulled out as he listened to Mycroft's heart wrenching sobs.

"Hey, hey now. Shhh, it's _fine_, they're all fine. _Sherlock's_ fine, it'll be alright. _You're ok,"_ Greg soothed, trying desperately not to cry himself. He was terribly empathetic at times. He really didn't need it to happen right now. Mycroft's hands tightened on his jumper, as he nodded messily into Greg's neck, sniffling and gasping, not quite able to speak yet. Mycroft's heart hurt and he had been so afraid that Sherlock had been seriously injured _or worse_. It was a relief, these were tears of relief and fear and he just needed to get it all out because if he didn't _now_, he never would. He was just glad that Greg was there. He wouldn't have had anyone else to do this in front of.

"Hey, I'm right here," Greg continued on. "_I'm not going anywhere_, take your time. Take all the time you need."

And those few words just made Mycroft cry harder, but in a better way and he started to laugh then, laugh and hiccup through the tears. He giggled into Greg's neck and then realized exactly where he was when he felt Greg's responding laugh vibrate in his throat, right where Mycroft had his face pressed against. He huffed another laugh and then pulled away, grimacing at the mess y state he'd left Greg's jumper in.

Before he could apologize, Greg stopped him. "It's fine. I can always wash away snot and tears. No harm done." He looked at Mycroft worriedly. "You alright now? Better?" Mycroft nodded. "You sure? Cos if you need to have another cry, go for it. Really, I don't mind. I have _two_ shoulders you know."

Mycroft gave a ragged laugh again, his voice a bit wrecked from crying. "No, truly. I feel much better." He sobered up then. "Really, Gregory. Thank you. If I could somehow repay you for having to deal with all _that_…"

But Greg was shaking his head. Mycroft was an idiot if he thought he'd only done that for payment. "No. Really, don't. That's what I'm here for, alright? I _wanted_ to."

Mycroft nodded, another wave of emotion hitting him, but he stopped it just in time from becoming tears. He was just a bit sensitive right now. He smiled and nodded to Greg again and then stood up, extending a hand to Greg to help him up as well. Once they were both up, Mycroft turned away. His face was probably blotchy and red, a real mess. He looked horrid after crying, he knew. But Greg tugged his head around and wiped a few stray tears from his face, then smiled, not disgusted or horrified.

How could he be? Mycroft was beautiful in his eyes no matter what. _Oh_. Oh that was _odd_. Greg _really_ liked this boy, oh goodness. He smiled at Mycroft's look of gratitude and nodded for him to walk on. If Sebastian had already gotten home, all bloody and disgusting and filthy and angry – he'd been so angry, at Jim, at everyone, but mostly Jim, Greg could tell – then the rest of the House would be worried and wondering and wanting to go see the three – ok, maybe Seb would be the only one who would want to see Jim, maybe Molly too, she was an odd one, that was for sure – of them in the hospital. Greg sighed. Really. He'd have wanted to tell the others altogether. It'd be easier. Harry was going to be wrecked, Irene messed up as well, as close as she's been to Sherlock, oddly enough. Anderson and Sally probably wouldn't believe it until they saw it. Mike and Molly probably already knew, seeing as they were at the hospital as of now.

Greg shook his head. They'd deal with it when they got home.s

It was only at the door of Baker House, when Mycroft nodded to him and let go of his hand that Greg finally realized they'd held hands for the rest of the walk home.

* * *

><p><strong>So? I hope that was to your expectations. I really really do. Seriously guiz. Beta'd by the same woman who's done it for the other chapters! Must give her a bit of credit there ;) Also thanks to my older sister. It was great of her to help, because she's not into slash but she did it anyway. She doesn't "mind" Mormor, just not the "romantic aspect". *le sigh* I'll try and knock some sense into her, shall I? :)<strong>

**So. Reviews would be wondrous, guiz, really. And you guiz are some of the best reviewers. I've gotten reviews and likes and favorites by Americans, British, Australians, Finnish, Germans and the likes! It's great. I'm so glad I'm getting across to such a different variety of people! Really. I'm so glad, chuffed, really.**

**Next chapter is, hopefully, just as long and maybe we can get some action in there, yes?**

**Once again, please REVIEW! **


	8. Another Brick In The Wall

**I'm so sorry. This was due yesterday (the day before that?). I just... ugh. Stuff came up but here it is now.**

**And I hate it. I started to look at it and it just got to a point where I hate it now. So take it away from me and don't hate me too much for it. Ok? Ok. **

**Yeah. They kiss. But I hate it all. Ok? I think this chapter sucks because apparently I can't write teen kissing and fluffiness anymore? Ok. Fine, whatever mind. Is it because I've been depriving you of sleep? It is, isn't it?**

**me and my mind. we argue a lot, as is evident. So sorry for the delay, is what I'm trying to say.**

**Current Song: Common People by Pulp (I guess they're British or something? w.e. I like it well enough)**

**Current Thought: Sleep. It's for weaker men. Er, women. Here, have over 5,000 words of... well, shite.**

* * *

><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part 8<strong>

It took a few weeks for the members of Baker House to get back on their feet.

As Greg had thought, Harry had a meltdown when she heard about John. She stayed with him in the hospital until he got home. Irene had stayed in the hospital with Sherlock , speaking with him, playing thinking games to pass the time. She'd grown attached, it seemed, to the younger boy and acted almost sisterly to him.

Sherlock and Jim were released before John and Sherlock was there to welcome him back. Both Sherlock and Jim had hairline fractures, Jim on the back of his skull, Sherlock down the front, and they both had concussions. It was a bit funny seeing them have to abide by the same rules for a few days as they healed up at home. Sally had called them both freaks, to which they were both insulted.

"I thought_ I_ was the Freak!" Sherlock asked, sounding hurt.

"I thought _he_ was the Freak!" Jim said, sounding insulted.

And then she had stared at them and sat between them on the couch they were resting on, taking each of their hands into one of hers and giving a squeeze. Neither boy looked at her, looking off to the side, but Greg swore that Sherlock, at least, squeezed back, and at least Jim didn't snatch his hand back immediately. It was a start.

Anderson had merely told them that he was not going to cater to them. And then he had promptly gotten them both a cup of tea when asked, without complaint. He gave Jim his, the handle sticking to the right. Jim waited till the other boy was gone and then sighed irritably, turning the handle to the left so he could grip it.

"I'm _left-handed_ you twat," Jim said under his breath. "Rude."

Sherlock, surprisingly, just laughed.

John was an entire different story. When he came home, it was with his arm in a cast, his shoulder having been cracked in several places, and his arse in a wheel-chair, his femur shattered. The arm-cast came off a week after he got back and a few weeks later, he could get out of the chair. But he had a considerable limp and was going nowhere fast. His dreams for the army were dashed and for a while, he was silent. That coupled with having to see a therapist for his new-found claustrophobia and not even Sherlock could get John out of the dumps much.

One day, Molly cleared her throat in the rec-room, and everyone looked up at her. But she was addressing John. "You know, John. You know what Mike was telling me the other day? Well, he was saying that in the army, they had medics. He said he'd go, but he'd not brave enough. So I thought of you, you know? Because, for you it might be a bit hard to fight but you could be a medic. I don't think they'd mind much."

John had looked at her and beamed a smile over. "An army-medic…?" He blinked, because yeah, that was an actual possibility. "Yeah," he said. "Thank you Molly that… that sounds amazing."

Later on, Sherlock took Molly aside and said two words: "Thank you." Then he'd given her a peck on the cheek and gone back to John and Molly had been smiling like a fool when Mike came back in from kicking a ball around outside with Greg. It had made her day. John Watson had taken her seriously and Sherlock Holmes had thanked and kissed her.

The next day, Sherlock had given a still-morose John one look and tossed a cane at him. It was one of the medical ones, something he was sure John would appreciate. "Let's go," he simply said.

And John had looked at the cane, stood up and lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock had gently shown John how to use it, putting all his weight on the cane when he stepped with his bad leg. In minutes, they were out the door, John hobbling after Sherlock who was going just slow enough so the other boy could keep up with him.

And everyone was sure they'd be fine.

Jim and Sebastian were another story. Sebastian hadn't been in Jim's bed since they got back. Jim hadn't spoken a word about it to the other boy since then. Nothing seemed to be able to fix whatever damage Jim had done to their relationship. Or so most of the house thought.

On the third week since the explosion, Greg, Mycroft and Anthea walked into the rec-room and blanched. Greg looked away, Mycroft looked a bit peeved and Anthea lowered her eyes to her mobile. Jim was sitting on the couch. _Naked_. Except, of course, for the jewels he was wearing. They looked to be a copy of the Crown Jewels (or at least Greg really hoped they were mimicry). All that he was missing was the crown and they could all guess where that was.

Sebastian shoved them aside while groaning. "Move. What the hell is so interesting that you can't-" He moved Greg over and then stopped. He only lifted an eyebrow and said, "Oh? What's this? I didn't take you one for jewelry, Jim."

Jim simply shrugged. "The man with the key is king," he said sagely, gesturing to his naked body. And then he smiled wickedly, lifting what Greg had thought was a scepter but was really Jim's…uh, well _scepter_ with a jewel ring adorning the top. "And honey?" he said sensuously. "_You should see me in a crown_."

Greg never wanted to witness what happened next. Jim must have done something right, because Seb just about growled, attacked him, and lifted him off the couch, mouth everywhere, dragging him back to their room. He, Mycroft and Anthea had stood in the doorway in absolute silence until Greg had said, "So, Dr. Who should be on just about now… Anyone up for some Matt Smith?"

And they'd been ok, mostly, after that. Or as ok as Sebastian and Jim ever were. At least they were speaking with each other again, and occasionally having sex but they did that in their room so it was alright. Mycroft really couldn't stop them. Well, that was a lie. He probably could, but it kept the two crazies semi-sane, so why would he?

Speaking of Mycroft, Greg was sure something between the two of them had changed. He spent more time with Mycroft (and occasionally, by default, Anthea). It was good. Mycroft had come to another one of his practices the other day and had brought him lunch this time. Greg had ignored the looks of his nosey team-mates as he smiled at Mycroft and sat to eat. He'd thanked the other boy who had told him to thank Anthea, since she had packed it. And Greg had texted her his thanks, to which she'd sent back an emoticon smiley face.

They'd gone into town a few more times over the various weekends and just spent the days relaxing and having fun, seeing the sights. Greg had never put much stock into London before, but that all changed once Mycroft showed him the ups and downs of the city, the holes-in-the-wall restaurants, the quiet little parks. It was… really, really great.

And Greg was in so much danger. So much danger of going too far with his feelings for Mycroft, of actually, maybe… falling for him. And Mycroft… didn't feel that way. Not about him, he couldn't. They were friends, and if that was all Greg could have, he'd take it. He knew Mycroft thought about someone. He'd see the boy staring off into space, a fond, warm look in his eyes and Greg hated to shake him out of it sometimes, even though it hurt to know it wasn't for him. He finally got the courage to ask.

"Who is she?" Greg had said softly when Mycroft was staring into space, his eyes glazed over looking Greg's direction.

It was odd because Mycroft never acted like he was staring out into space whenever Greg would call him out of it. He would just look at Greg, like he was now, blinking a bit. "What?" he asked.

Greg shrugged. They were in the rec-room, sitting on the couch, _Jeeves and Wooster_ on the telly. "You do this thing… where you kind of," he made a motion with his hands. "Stare about. You're thinking of someone. Someone you care about. I can see it. In your…eyes." Well that wasn't awkward at all.

Mycroft looked indecisive before he said, "_Him_." And then he left it at that.

And so Greg was going to leave it at that too, even though it got his hopes up a bit, but really, he needed to just stop. This was going too far and he wouldn't be able to handle it if his heart got broken by the one person it needed.

* * *

><p>It was a Friday, in the afternoon he had just got out of classes. He had the rest of the day to himself and Greg was a bit content with that. Jim and Seb were having more sadistic make-up sex and Sherlock and John were out exploring the woods, even though Greg was sure it was starting to get too chilly for the boys to be out long. Harry, Irene and Sally were all watching <em>The Voice<em> on the telly, cooing and cheering and singing along. Anderson was using the lab-space they had created in the basement while Sherlock was out, the only chance he really ever got to use it. Greg was sure Molly and Mike were out on a date by the blush on their cheeks when they had walked out a few moments ago, Mike holding the door open for her.

Mycroft was, oddly enough, missing. As was Anthea, but Greg was used to that. It gave him time to think, time to have some space, although he didn't really like his on space anymore. It all seemed so empty without Mycroft. After the incident so many weeks ago, about a month and some change now, he and Mycroft had… bonded. Or so Greg thought.

Greg went up to his room, then, seeing as he had nothing to do. He planned on taking a book down, having a go at reading, and as he climbed the steps he thought of which novel he'd take down. But he shook his head with a smile. No. Not a novel. He'd be reading a play. His favorite one, consequentially.

This particular version of _The Twelfth Night_ had been given to him by his grandmother days before she died. She'd written a heartfelt inscription on the inside and then shared with him her deepest secret: that she knew she was going to die and soon, and that she didn't want anyone around for it except him. And so Greg had stayed over her house for the next few days, constantly by her side until the fourth day when he got up for a quick bathroom break. She was gone by the time he got back.

Still, the book was his last reminder of the wonderful woman she was. He cherished, he really did. Last year, though, the boy he had roomed with went on a rampage on his books. His grandmother's copy of The Twelfth Night, his favorite book, had the cover ripped from it, obscenities on every page and the page with her inscription on it ripped out and burned in front of him.

It was why he never trusted his books out of his suitcase anymore. He already learned from that mistake.

But, things had changed. Mycroft had made him forget that fear, because Greg trusted him. He trusted the other boy with his things, with his room. Maybe even with his heart.

Greg finally got to their room, a smile on his face. He entered and went to the book shelf. _The Twelfth Night_ was under the rest of his books, to the back and out of sight. Greg went to reach for it and froze when he came in contact with…

Nothing.

His book was gone.

For a moment, nothing really made sense. It all blurred and thoughts whizzed their way around Greg's mind. Then everything _did_ make sense and the truth was terrible, so, so terrible and his heart was being ripped out of his chest

There was only one person who saw him put the book away whenever he was done reading it. It was the same person who made his heart beat faster, his stomach flutter. The same person who promised to leave his things be, who swore they'd do nothing to harm him after he'd taken a beating from the rest of the world. The one person he'd trusted, _actually trusted_. After everything that had happened, he'd still believed in this one person and now they'd gone and done this. He had no idea where the book was. But only one other person knew it's meaning to him, knew where he kept it. He just couldn't understand why they would do such a thing.

Why _Mycroft_ would do such a thing.

Greg swallowed hard, his vision blurring as tears threatened. His last tie to his grandmother and Mycroft had taken it and-what? What had the other boy even done with it? Why had he taken it? There was no one else. Greg had been so careful with it, had been so secretive. Except in front of Mycroft. Because he thought he could trust the other boy and God, he'd been so stupid, hadn't he?

That was the moment Mycroft chose to walk in, right when Greg was about to go blind with hurt and rage.

"Gregory, I was looking for you and-"

"_How could you_?" Greg asked, his voice cracking to his complete horror. Oh it had cracked and a few tears had escaped his eyes. Shite. He'd been going for cold, blank rage, like Mycroft could do. He'd failed. Of course he had. Greg was a loser; people like Mycroft saw that and easily took advantage of it.

"Gregory," Mycroft said, a bit shocked. "What – what are you talking about? What happened? Are you alright?"

Greg laughed bitterly, another tear rolling down his cheek as he stared, his hurt open and raw in front of the both of them. "Oh yes, I'm fine. Don't pretend you have no idea what I'm talking about. Where's my book Mycroft?" His voice was starting to fail him. He felt his hands shaking. "Where is it? Why'd you touch it, why'd you take it?" The last part was a yell. It surprised them both. Greg hadn't thought he had it in him. Apparently, neither did Mycroft.

"Oh dear. I was hoping you wouldn't notice that," Mycroft said softly. "Gregory, it's not what it looks like, I sw-"

"Don't tell me you swear," Greg said, shaking his head angrily. "I trusted you, I trusted you so much, Mycroft. You know what that book means to me. You know. Why, why would you – I just can't – how could you? What did you do with it?"

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said softly, oddly not even defending himself. God, why did this stupid boy have to be so infuriating? Here Greg was, trying to be cross with him, angry with him, and he was just taking it. It made the entire situation worse. If Mycroft would defend himself, give Greg a reason not to be angry with him… Greg would give anything not to be angry with him. "I should have asked… but… I wanted it to be a surprise."

Greg stopped, everything tilting as Mycroft helped him sit on the floor of their room, his knees buckling a bit as he was given a little ray of hope. Mycroft hadn't betrayed his trust he'd… he'd wanted it to be a surprise, he'd…

Wait, what?

"What?" Greg asked, Mycroft wiping tears from his face, something that would have Greg in a conniption if he was in his right state of mind. "Surprise…what? What?"

Mycroft actually blushed and looked sorry at the same time, somehow. "I, well I didn't take it, well I did, but I had a reason and well, it was supposed to be for later, I mean, much, much later and-and-"

"Mycroft?" Greg said, cutting through Mycroft's rambling. Mycroft Holmes, though, rambling. It was a first and probably a last. "Shut up and spit it out. Before I hit you or something because I don't understand and I'm a bit angry right now."

Mycroft blinked and then, instead of explaining himself, he handed Greg a thin box. Greg made a face and Mycroft said, "Um… there, I guess. Open it."

"Where's my copy?" Greg asked, his voice taking on a hysterical tone.

Mycroft looked scandalized. "Look, Greg… I…" He sighed. "It's… a bit different now. Just… open that please. It will explain so much."

"You don't have it?" he said, his eyes wide, panic taking a hold of him.

"No, you do," Mycroft said softly.

Greg turned to the box , gesturing to it. "In there?" Mycroft nodded. So Greg picked up the box and slowly took off the solid grey wrapping paper. Under it was a black box, glossy on the outside and he finally took off that cover. He stared at the thing inside of it. Just stared. Then he looked at Mycroft. Then he looked inside the box. Then back at Mycroft. Then back to the box.

Because inside was a book. _The_ book. _His_ book. _The Twelfth Night_.

Except it was in a dark brown leather cover, with the words _The Twelfth Night_ and _William Shakespeare_ embossed in silver on the front of it. He opened to the first page, where his name was written in long-hand cursive, even his middle name (Emile) and he flipped to the next page.

Where he promptly broke down into tears.

Because, on the next page, also written in long-hand cursive was the inscription his grandmother had wrote to him:

_My dearest Gregory,_

_ You are special. You are unique. You are wonderful and the world will one day come to realize that. You have been a beacon for me in my last days of darkness and I am thankful for you every day. Don't be sad when I am gone; do not cry. I wouldn't want you to think of me like that. Instead, __remember that you are loved by me, and that you made my life a better one. And there is no tragedy in that._

_ ~Grand'Mere _

Greg had never forgotten those words. He'd recited them to Mycroft what seemed like ages ago and apparently, the other boy hadn't forgotten either. Greg flipped through the rest of the book. It was the same pages, but they had been cleaned up, straightened out. Almost like the pages had been photocopied and then cleaned up a bit. His book had been professionally restored.

What the hell?

He looked up at Mycroft where the other boy was just watching his reactions, his face unsure and closed off until Greg simply asked, "_How_? _Why_?"

Mycroft looked at a loss. "How? Well, I knew where your book was and it was only a matter of getting it and passing it on to Anthea to get it fixed up." He looked away then. "And…_why_? Well… Greg, I don't know if you've realized the influence you've had on me but." Mycroft stopped, swallowed then finally looked at Greg. "But you have had a significant influence on me and…after what happened with Sherlock… it just proved it more and-and I think what I'm just trying to say is…" He sighed. "Is _thank you._ Thank you for being in my life, Gregory Lestrade. Thank you for being such a wonderful part of it."

Greg wondered if he was maybe, you know, passed out or dreaming or something to that effect. Because this couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. But Mycroft was still talking.

"And…well, I was hoping to give it as a Christmas gift, but I should have known that you would notice it's disappearance before that. So… I guess now is as good a time as any to be giving it to you. Again, I apologize that I made you feel the way you did by taking it without your permission. I… I would never Gregory. I would never do that to you, I swear."

There was earnestness in Mycroft's voice, straining with Greg to understand. But Greg understood. He understood perfectly. Maybe he understood more than Mycroft was saying. But he didn't want to let himself hope and then get those hopes crushed. He couldn't stand that. So instead, Greg verbalized.

He said very quietly, "Thank you. I'm sorry for how I reacted but, thank you. I'd say you don't know how much this means to me, but I'm sure you do since you had enough sense to actually care about what I said and listened."

"I _always_ listen when you speak," Mycroft said back, his voice a whisper.

Greg swallowed hard. "_Oh_? Why's that I wonder?" God it was so risky. After everything, it came down to this.

Mycroft looked the other boy in the eye and saw something that hadn't been there before, a readiness, a spark of hope. He had put that there, he knew it was true. It made his heart beat faster, made him want to jump, take that leap of faith and he was so surprised when that was what actually happened, what he finally did.

Mycroft scooted closer to Greg where they were sitting on the floor. He was so close, so close he could just reach out and….

"You…you are wonderful," Mycroft said truly, meaning ever word. "You have captured me. And you…have been so strong, showed me the goodness in humanity. You have…" Mycroft shook his head amazed. Greg had it so hard, yet he still found it in himself to defend himself against the cruelty of others, still stood up for himself in ways that Mycroft never could. "You are amazing, Gregory Lestrade. And the world will come to realize that one day, just like I have."

He got ever closer, Greg's breath coming in short little puffs, finally brushing against Mycroft's cheek, he was that close to the other boy. "You asked me a few weeks ago," Mycroft started. "You asked me who I was thinking of when I was staring out into space. You did, didn't you?"

Greg nodded, tried to find his voice where it was hiding. "Y-yeah," he managed. "Yeah I did. I did."

Mycroft shook his head slowly, those grey eyes getting wider, the pupils dilating. "Gregory I-I was never staring out into space." Greg's mouth fell open. What? "I was just…" And now Mycroft felt his heart in his throat. "I was staring at you…"

"Why?" Greg asked, almost afraid of the answer. It could only be one thing but he could barely believe it himself, so why should it be true? But then what else? What else could it be? He could only think of one answer and to him it was insane but it was the only answer really.

Mycroft stared into his eyes. "Because it was _you_, Gregory. It was…it was _always you_, you who I was thinking about _all that time_. _Always_. You were going through my thoughts. It was _you_, Greg. Just you. And… and you alone, you alone were enough for me, enough for everything. I just needed, I just _need_ _you_."

Greg's eyes went wide, his mouth going dry, his stomach flipping, his nerves skyrocketing, everything slowing down, the book in his hand falling to the floor beside his thigh as he leaned in the rest of the way, meeting Mycroft half-way. When their mouths touched, they did so softly, chastely, just a press of lips to lips. It was a sweet kiss, full of meaning and words unsaid, feelings that had been bottled up for far too long and needed to be let out, Greg's stubble rubbing into Mycroft's chin a bit, his hands coming up to cup Mycroft's face in relief, gentle and caring. Mycroft's fingers slid to Greg's knee cap, where they settled and cupped it, his thumb rubbing it.

It was long awaited, Greg thought, about time really. Some sort of tension between them broke with that kiss. Some sort of tension that had been there ever since Mycroft had started coming to his football practices, since he had first started to bring Greg to new places, listen to him speak, put up with David Bowie and The Kinks playing on Greg's cassette tape player during the weekends. They'd finally broken that annoying barrier that had been up between them all this time, all the months they'd known each other and bonded over the happenings in their daily lives.

Just at the first feeling of Mycroft's tongue gently licking at Greg's lower lip, the former's phone started to ring wildly. They both froze, as if realizing for the first time what they were doing and where they were doing it. Mycroft pulled back a bit, Greg taking in a deep breath, trying to catalogue everything about the other boy – his kiss bitten lips, mussed hair, the blush disappearing down his neck and into his shirt – just in case this was the last time it happened.

Mycroft gave a sigh and quietly checked his phone, as if it was paining him to stop his ministrations to Greg (which is was) and he gave an even deeper sigh when he said, "That was Anthea. I… have to go."

Greg blinked, his mind going blank for a moment. And then: "Right. Well, then, off you go."

Mycroft gave Greg a look, one that told him not to worry. Greg didn't know if he meant not to worry about what had just happened, to forget it, or if it meant not to worry, Mycroft really meant it, don't forget it. It seemed to be the second one, as Mycroft bent forward before getting up and kissed Greg on the mouth again, slower, licking at the seam of his lips, causing Greg to hum in approval and open his mouth tentatively. He'd never really kissed someone before. It was so new, is what it was. The fact that another person honestly wanted him. Like this.

It was pure magic.

Mycroft pulled back enough to rest his forehead against Greg's and sigh in content. Oh God that was perfect. It really, really was. Better than it had gone in his head.

"I really do have to go," he said regretfully, his hand stroking Greg's cheek.

"Ok," the other boy said a bit breathlessly.

Mycroft chuckled. "Right then." He stood up, then helped Greg up, smiling as the other boy clutched his fixed book in hand tightly. "Wait up for me?" he asked then, as if he was worried Greg would disappear while he was gone. Greg was thinking the same thing, but the other way around.

"Of course," Greg answered immediately. He didn't even have to think twice.

Mycroft looked at him, took a step back, not really letting go. Then again, Greg wasn't either. It was new for both of them. Mycroft had never really had a reason to like anyone; Greg had never had anyone to like. The fact that it was reciprocated on both sides equally was something that neither of them was taking lightly, would ever take lightly. Each was loathe to let the other out of their sight in those first few precious, fragile moments in which a relationship is budding and all the participants want to do is stick together and let whatever bond was forming form strong and permanent.

It was Greg who finally let go of Mycroft's hand after giving it a squeeze, having the common sense to know that Anthea wasn't going to be very please for having been made to wait. He felt though, as if a piece of his life just dropped away and he already was anticipating the moment Mycroft came back.

In reality, it wasn't really different from before, except, now Mycroft was aware that Greg felt this way. And Greg was aware that Mycroft returned those feelings. Which was an extraordinary thing, really, if you think about it. Greg had had a whole lot of nothing all his life. And suddenly, he had a whole lot of something that he actually wanted and needed and was so proud and relieved to finally have. It was a dream come true, _except better_, because Greg could never have come up with someone who was as perfect for him as Mycroft.

Whatever it was that they had just initiated between them, it was really only just the beginning.

Mycroft nodded to him, then gave a small smile and Greg melted, biting his lips so he wouldn't voice his desire to snog the smile from Mycroft's face. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to do that yet. He'd have to wait a bit. See how that went.

When the older boy finally left, Greg collapsed onto his bed, his eyes closed. His heart was galloping, his stomach was in knots. His hands were clammy and wrapped tight around his new and improved book. He opened it up to the page with his grandmother's inscription on it, his heart in his throat because… because…. God, Mycroft was something else and maybe she was watching over Greg. Because no one deserved the amazing thing that had just happened to him, never mind _him_. Because Mycroft wanted him, needed him and that meant that Greg wasn't alone and wasn't that just wonderful? That he finally had someone, that he wasn't alone anymore?

Greg read his book after that, refusing to leave his room after that. The story seemed twice as better this time around and he was sure it had everything to do with Mycroft. Eventually, it got late and he showered and went to bed, although he sat up and waited. He dozed off anyway and was only awakened by the dry press of lips against his forehead as Mycroft came back in from whatever errand he and Anthea had been on.

But that was alright. It was _all_ alright.

Because it hadn't been a dream and Greg had felt a smile on Mycroft's mouth as he kissed him goodnight. And that had just filled a space in his heart Greg hadn't even known was empty.

* * *

><p><strong>Also I quoted Third Star in there shamelessly. if you can spot where, put the quote in your review and I'll make a list of you to dedicate the next chapter to. If you find it, I'll add you to the list.<strong>

_**I also got Jim's whole 'Left-handed Twat' Speech off of Tumblr, so, also not mine. NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE.**_

**Also: In the RPG I'm a part of on Tumblr, my Greg Lestrade (whom I play XD like a boss, i must admit!), well his fav. book is the Twelfth Night too. I love that stupid play. Read it for the first time in 8th grade when I got bored with the school's curriculum. Ah, good times, good times.**

**OH GUIZ: also, if you thought this was like, coming to an end, i have one thing to say to you:**

**HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA. You silly, silly people. **

**Yeah. No. This is like, in the middle. Maybe. Still fairly in the beginning, getting to the middle. We still have an arc or two left.**

**Like the X-Mas Break arc coming up in the next chapter. Oh yes. Oh yes I did go there. You know why? Because I felt like it and I wanted to. After that is the Boyfriend arc and the School arc and then the surprise arc that's gonna get a bit dark, so I'll warn you when we get there. Just in case you want to stop reading. I won't be offended if you ever do. Really. I won't.**

**So. More kissing next chapter (hopefully better than the crap I gave you guiz today) and erm... maybe some smut? I think I might, though maybe not next chapter... maybe. We'll see. Depends on a few things. Like whether or not I'm in the mood. Yeah. I have to be in a porn-writing mood. I know, I know. I'm a bad, bad person. I am quite aware.**

**So. Enough of my rambling. **

**REVIEW?**


	9. Just Another Brick In The Wall

**Here. Have it. Again it's 4:30 AM over here and I'm sick of this chapter. Again, I don't think it's very good. I really hope you guiz don't hate me for this. Or for my bitching. I hope you like it well enough. **

**Here's to the ConsultingAnon who found the Third Star quote in the last chapter. I said I'd dedicate, so I'm dedicating. I just hope he/she is not mad that it was for such an... iffy chappie.**

**Anyway, here's the beginning of the new story-arc!**

**Current Song: Heard Them Stirring by the Fleet Foxes**

**Current Thought: I need sleep, chocolate, a bathroom and some ice for my bad knees. And not particularly in that exact order. Also: I listen to a lot of Fleet Foxes when I write... hmmmm...**

* * *

><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part 9<strong>

Christmas break was sneaking up on everyone fast.

And everything was slowly changing, just like the weather. For example, Molly and Mike were officially dating now. Irene and Harry were as well. Jim had actually cooked for Sebastian (well, he said cooked, everyone else said 'blew up the kitchenette'). John was looking into being a surgeon and Sherlock had discovered nicotine patches – which he preferred over smoking.

The biggest change though had to be between Mycroft and Greg. Ever since the book and the kiss, things between them had been different, and understandably so. They had finally found each other through the mess of their lives, and it was a good thing too. They each needed someone, and it seemed that the other was exactly it.

It wasn't that they were immediately comfortable and together. No, it took a bit of time. They were shy at first, very shy. Greg started out after that first kiss, asking Mycroft to kiss him each time he wanted the other boy to; as if afraid he would be denied. After a week of this, Mycroft recognized the look Greg would get on his face and would kiss him gladly before asked. Gregory stopped asking after he realized Mycroft could just tell. It made every kiss that much sweeter, knowing Mycroft was looking for the signs.

Mycroft had restricted himself to only kiss Greg when he saw the look. He broke out of that habit when he lost control one day and just kissed the other boy because he wanted to. Gregory hadn't minded. Not one bit. So it was give and take now. And that was fine too. They needed that.

And the kisses weren't crazy and heated either. They started out soft and sometimes, a little passion would get in there, but it was new for the both of them and there was plenty of time to be crazy and passionate later on. For now, they wanted to take it slow, learn the shape of the other's mouth, what made him gasp or breathe faster, kiss harder, go boneless. They each wanted to learn what the sound of the other's heart was like, thrumming against his neck, his pulse a wonderful throbbing against the other's fingers where they stroked his neck.

Mycroft would run out to do whatever the senior class president did, and he would drop a kiss to Greg's forehead before leaving, no matter what the other boy was doing, whether it was reading, doing class work or even sleeping. Greg would rush out to practice, but first, he would find Mycroft and, right in the doorway to their room, he'd lift his head and Mycroft would lower his, and their lips would touch sweetly, swiftly, and he would wink and be off mere seconds later, the other boy's flavor lingering on his lips.

The others figured it out eventually. Sherlock was the first (of course), John the second by default. The latter glanced at Greg running down to practice one afternoon and he'd made a face and said, "Use mouthwash. My brother's probably been stuffing himself with cake and who knows what else, when he cheats on his diet. You don't know what's been in his mouth."

And John just blinked, smiled and said, "Good for you Greg. And I think you're going to be late for football."

That had been that. The rest of the house had just caught on and smiled, gave them space when they happened to be in the same room and averted their eyes when they would be achingly sweet with each other. And they had to be sweet, because Greg was still learning, learning what it felt like to have someone who actually cared how his day went, who wanted to kiss him, who wanted to be sweet to him, not just because he was someone to be sweet to, but because they liked him for who he was and cherished him. He'd never had that before. He was trying to get used to that now.

There would be some days, when he would imagine what it would be like if it all went away, if Mycroft changed his mind and left Greg alone. He would get a look in his eyes and space out, his mouth twisting with distaste, his heart giving an erratic throb. Mycroft would know though , he always did, and he'd snap Greg out of it, putting his arms around the other boy, reassuring him of his presence, making sure he knew he was wanted and that Mycroft wasn't leaving him any time soon or ever, if he had his way.

It was good for the both of them, and they were learning. That was probably the best part. Coming out of their respective shells, the secret places they had been hiding themselves from the world in, Mycroft with his city of ice and Greg with his cave of solitude, and they were doing it _for each other_. And it was just getting so much better. Better than either of them could hope. Their comfort zones eventually crossed with each other and things became so much easier for them. Greg couldn't ask for anything more, thanked his lucky stars every single day. Mycroft just wondered what he had done to deserve the wonderful thing he had with Gregory.

One Saturday night found them both stretched out on their backs on Greg's bed, side by side, looking up at the ceiling, talking about nothing in particular. They'd never slept in the same bed and maybe they wouldn't for a while, but what they were doing now was enough for the both of them. Besides, Greg really liked the position they were in. He was on one side of the bed and Mycroft was on the side closest to the door, one arm hanging off the side of the mattress. The other one had its hand entangled with Greg's between them. He liked that he could just reach between them and take Mycroft's hand in his, that his touch was wanted, _craved_ even.

Mycroft had just finished making a corny joke about politics and the Prime Minister, Greg still shaking with laughter, not at the joke (it honestly wasn't that funny) but at the way Mycroft had told it, when the former cleared his throat awkwardly and said tentatively, a tone he rarely used, "Gregory, may I ask you a question?"

Greg composed himself, tucking the look on Mycroft's face when he had told the punch-line away in his mind for future reference, and he turned his head to look at his… boyfriend? Best friend? But no, they were more than that now, surely? He really didn't know the rules to any of this. It was a bit frustrating. Then again, he couldn't be blamed. He'd never had this before.

"Yes, Mycroft. Even though I'm pretty sure you just did…" He smiled at the irritated look on the other boy's face. "I'm _just joking_. Go ahead, love." Greg adored addressing Mycroft with a pet name. Mycroft would always flush with pleasure when he did, just as he was now, and it gave Greg a warm feeling in his chest.

Mycroft looked away now though, his face flushing for a completely different reason. "I was wondering… if you would like to…" He let go of Greg's hand and flipped onto his side to face the other boy. He used his previously occupied hand to prop his head up, and then used his now-free hand to trace patterns over Greg's clothed chest as he thought of the correct phrasing of his question. Greg had the sudden urge to have that hand on the bare skin of his chest, tracing patterns thoughtlessly, but he shook the thought away as Mycroft began to speak again.

"What are you doing over the winter holiday break?" Mycroft asked. Winter Holiday Break. Mycroft was ever politically correct with these things.

Greg honestly wasn't doing anything. He'd be staying at school this year, just like he had the last two years. He was a bit far from home, and anyway on holidays like these his parents went up to see his older sibling in the city they went to university in. They were neither religious nor into the corporate Christmas holiday, so it was mostly just free time to see their family. Greg had used to stay with his grandparents if he didn't want to make the trip, still being home with his parents since he was the youngest child out of five siblings, but now since they had passed he stayed at school. He didn't really mind. It had never been an issue in the past.

Greg knew of mostly everyone else's holiday plans. Sally was going to Liverpool to spend it with her father. Anderson was going to spend it in London with his aunt. Mike was going to his parents out in Cornwall and Molly was spending it with her older brother. Irene was still tied between going home and staying at school. Harry had fought to keep herself and John at school; apparently, according to Sherlock – and he'd told Greg in the strictest confidence – the Watsons were a bit on the drunkard side (which explained Harry's attraction to alcohol and John's aversion to it) and Harry wanted John away from the influence.

Greg didn't know what Jim and Sebastian were doing. And honestly? He wasn't sure he _wanted_ to know.

"Nothing. Staying at school, actually. Which isn't so bad," Greg finally answered. He usually stayed away from the other kids. It helped keep the attacks at bay if he just wasn't around any of them.

Mycroft nodded as if he knew this already. "Hmmm," he said.

"Alright. Was that your only question?" Greg asked with a soft laugh. He knew Mycroft better, knew the other boy must have some other things to add. It made him smile wider when he realized the fact that he did know something about Mycroft, something personal and it felt really good to know he was the only one with that kind of insight.

"No. Indeed it wasn't," Mycroft said, realizing what Greg had and just as please by it. "I want to know if you'd… that is to say, if you would find it acceptable to spend the winter holiday with me and my family." Mycroft was practically holding his breath now, waiting for an answer.

Greg lay there, frozen. Had Mycroft just…? He had. He really had. Oh my. This was… acceptable. More than that, Greg actually wanted to go. In his mind this was Mycroft's way of saying that he was going to be in Greg's life for a while, so the other boy might as well meet his family now rather than later. It showed the importance of Greg in Mycroft's life, made it all more real, cemented their budding relationship.

"_Yes_," Greg said, without hesitation. Because he wanted that. He needed that. And he honestly could think of no better way to spend his vacation. He'd rather be with Mycroft, always, if he was given the choice. That was just how he felt.

Mycroft looked relieved. Honestly, he hadn't been sure as to Greg's answer and now that he knew… he just felt so much better. "Thank goodness," he said. "Sherlock will be inviting John and by default, Harry and that means Irene is coming… and that means I can't leave Jim and Sebastian here or we won't have a house to come back to. So."

Greg raised an eyebrow. Really, they weren't going to have much of a holiday were they? Not with everyone (practically) going to Mycroft's. "Is that why you want me there?" Greg asked, able to joke with Mycroft more freely now. "So you don't need to put up with our irritating housemates?"

Mycroft smiled and leaned closer. "Yes and no," he admitted. "Of course I don't want to deal with them; but I also just _really_ want you there."

Greg swallowed hard at the honesty in Mycroft's voice and he closed the gap between them, sealing their lips together in a kiss. It was almost like they were sealing the deal and Greg giggled against Mycroft's lips at the thought. The other boy pulled away, looking at Greg like he was a bit crazy.

"And what, may I ask, is so funny Gregory?"

Greg smiled. "I feel like I'm in _Supernatural_ and just sold you my soul," he answered, making Mycroft groan. Really, he never should have introduced Greg to that show.

Between that and Dr. Who, Mycroft was in for it big time, he could tell. Somehow though, he didn't much care. So long as it was Greg making the cheesy references at him, he could handle it all.

* * *

><p>"Greg?"<p>

"Hey Mum," he responded, smiling a bit at her familiar voice coming over the phone. He really did love his mother, tried to keep the reports of bullying to a minimum so he wouldn't worry her. She was too good to know that her son wasn't the star athlete with all the friends that she thought he had. Though, if he considered everyone in Baker House his friend, then maybe she wasn't too far off.

"Glad to hear from you before the holiday love. You're Dad and I were just packing to head out and see Angelette and Duncan. How are you love?"

Angelette and Duncan: Greg's oldest sister and brother.

"Fine, fine. How are you?" He really needed to get the preliminaries out of the way. He had to ask her before he lost his nerve.

"Wonderful." There was silence on her end. "Gregory. Why did you really call, love?"

Oh, bless his mother, she really knew him. Then again, she'd given birth to him; of course she knew him and his mind.

He sighed. "Um, so yeah. I want to ask you something."

"I figured as much," she said with a huff of laughter. He heard her pull a chair out from their kitchen table and sit down. "Alright. I'm sitting now. Lay it on me. I won't fall if it's too shocking, rest assured."

He smiled. How could he have ever been too nervous to ask this wonderful, bubbly, understanding, warm woman? "So… I kind of have a plan for over the holiday."

He heard her going through some papers, bills and junk-mail most likely. "Oh? What kinds of plans?"

Here it was. His moment of truth. "Uh, well…A friend invited me over to their house for the holiday week." Greg was practically holding his breath.

Silence. Then: "Bloke or bird?" His parents knew, of course. He couldn't keep it a secret, not from them when they mattered so much.

"Bloke."

More silence. "Do you happen to like this bloke?"

Greg swallowed, glad that he was alone for the moment, slumped on his bed. He closed his eyes tight. "Very much."

"Romantically?" she clarified.

He knew he wouldn't get off that easy. "Yeah, Mum. Romantically."

"Mmmhmm," she hummed thoughtfully. "Does he… happen to share this feeling of romanticism?"

Greg bit back a laugh at her word choice and tone of voice. She was being silly now. "I do hope so. It seems like it at least; he's said as much." In fewer words, but Greg was starting to understand the Language of Mycroft.

"Oh? He's said?" She hummed again. "Have you by any chance, I don't know…snogged this bloke?" she asked slyly.

Greg shoved his face into a pillow. "Yephm," he mumbled.

"Speak up, can't hear you love," his mother said and he could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yes," he said a bit more clearly. "I've snogged the bloke." He couldn't hold back the chuckle that escaped now.

"Oh, very good, very good," she said contemplatively. "He have a name?"

Greg sighed. He wondered when she was going to ask. "Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft? Well that's bloody odd. Is he English? Or is he one of those odd foreign exchange kids?"

"Mum!" he said reproachfully. "He's as English as they come. Reddish-brown hair, grey eyes. Tall and pale. Bit 'round 'bout the middle, but it's…cute." It really was Greg realized. He found Mycroft's tummy cute. Huh. He'd never have guessed that would be his thing, but alas. It was. "Bloody brilliant too. I swear he's going to be Prime Minister one day. Maybe more."

"I didn't ask for a description, love," she said jokingly.

"You were going to." He at least knew that much.

"I was. He sounds handsome. Is he nice?"

"Yes," he answered. His voice lowered a bit, got softer and honest. "He's… he's pretty wonderful Mum. I wish you could meet him, you're going to have to one of these days. He's…" Greg trailed off and gave a small sigh. "I wish I had words to describe him. He's polite and aloof on the outside, but he turns to much and gets really sweet in private. He' brutally honest and has this odd relationship with his brolly and- and… I don't think I ever saw him coming. I never expected him to show up and make everything… _better_." Greg felt very raw and open right then.

He heard a sharp intake of breath on his mother's end. "He sounds wonderful," she said softly, carefully. "Greg… how do you know this boy?"

He cleared his throat. "He's… my roommate." Can we say _awkward_ everyone?

"He's your… your roommate? Oh. That's uh…" She seemed at a loss.

"Mum," he said a bit horrified as he realized exactly where he train of thought was going. "Jesus Mum _no_. We haven't… we haven't even… no. I've only _just_ started to kiss him… what, last month? No. Oh, Mum, _stop it_."

He heard her laughing, maybe in relief, on the other end. "I didn't even say anything, Greg."

"You were thinking it. Very loud and very clear."

"I was, wasn't I?" She sighed. "Well… I don't see why not. You can go. Who else will be there?" Greg quickly gave her the rundown of the guest list and that both of Mycroft's parents were alright with them all going and that they would both be present at the house. She sounded a bit hesitant but stuck by her initial decision. "Two conditions though, Greg," she added when she had finally given her final consent.

"Oh? Alright. Let's hear it."

"One, you have to tell your Dad about young Mr. Holmes. He should know too, you know."

Greg nodded then remembered she was on the phone. "Right. I get that. Common courtesy that both your parents know you're…" He stopped for a moment. "Know you're _dating_ someone." Oh god he'd said and now he couldn't take it back, could he?

Not that he even wanted to…

"My point exactly, my love," his mother agreed. "Secondly, and I can't _believe_ I'm saying it, but you're seventeen and you're an adult now so: If anything… if anything _happens_, Greg, if Mr. Holmes gets the honor of deflowering my baby, then he'd better be using protection. That's _all_ I ask."

Greg's eyes bugged from his head as he sat up quickly in bed, almost falling off the mattress in the process. "What? _Mother_," he said. "Please stop. Just started dating. Just. Started. _Dating_. If you think I'm that _easy_, woman, you have another thing coming." He heard her laugh on the other end. "I'm serious Mum, don't worry about that. Not now, anyways."

"Ok. I'll listen _just_ this once. Still, if _anything_ happens-"

"Yes, yes. Oh God_, I get it_. Please hand the phone to Dad. I don't think I can take another minute of this kind of talk. You're scarring me for _life_, woman."

She did hand it over with more laughter and Greg did go through the grueling process of explaining Mycroft and the nature of their new relationship to his father and when that was over and he'd finally wrangled permission to go from his father, he hung up his mobile and collapsed backwards onto his bed with a sigh of relief.

Well that was just _tiresome_.

"May I come in now?"

Greg sat up so quickly he actually did fall off his bed this time and he heard Mycroft's prim chuckle come from by the door. Looking up revealed that yes, Mycroft was standing in the doorway and yes, he had just witnessed Greg flailing and falling off his bed.

"I believe this is the appropriate time for me to say the phrase, _'Like a boss'_, is it not?" the other boy continued. Greg was in a fit of laughter at that, taking the hand Mycroft offered him to haul him up with. Once on his feet Greg easily turned the hand-hold into a hug, wrapping arms around Mycroft's neck, the other boy's hands going to his waist. They were still a bit tentative, but they'd been getting more and more comfortable with touching like this.

"This ok?" Greg asked anyway, huffing in laughter again as Mycroft gave him a look that said it was more than ok. That he wanted it. Greg really had to stop being so surprised when he realized that. It was happening more often than not. He was just going to have to get used to it. And wasn't that a pleasant thought?

"So, I'm all set for the holiday," Greg continued. He smiled at Mycroft's raised eyebrow.

"You're parents agreed then?"

Greg nodded. "It took a while to work them over but… yeah. They agreed."

"What exactly did you say?"

Greg looked at Mycroft hard. It was so much more difficult to admit to the boy in front of him what he had so easily been able to explain to his parents. Why that was, he didn't understand, but still. He had to try. He owed Mycroft that much.

"I told them that you were very special to me," he started, all the while watching Mycroft's face and its expression. As of now, it was very blank. But that was fine. Greg was mostly looking at his eyes. They gave everything about the other boy away. "I told them that you were a wonderful person, that I… that I liked you very much and that – that I really wanted to spend the holiday with you." Greg closed his eyes now. He was a coward. "I want this, _us_, to mean something Mycroft. I want to spend my time _with you _because I believe you are worth the time and you are worth the effort." Greg opened his eyes then, snuck a look at Mycroft. His face was still blank, but his eyes screamed disbelief and relief and a million other things that gave Greg the strength and courage to say what he said next. "I told them that we were dating."

The room was very quiet after that and Greg looked away from Mycroft's eyes again as he said it. Alright. So maybe he wasn't that brave after all.

He was actually feeling a bit terrible, a bit vulnerable, until Mycroft said in a whisper, "And are we, Gregory? Dating, that is?"

When Greg next looked into Mycroft's eyes, he saw hope and wanting and knew he was the only one besides Mycroft who would ever see that. He hoped his gaze, his face, his words would show Mycroft that he was feeling the exact same way and that the other teen wasn't alone in this at all. It hit Greg then, like a load of bricks, that if Mycroft wasn't alone, neither was he. It sunk in for the first time.

If he said yes to this, because really it was Mycroft asking him if that was what Greg wanted, then he wouldn't be alone anymore. Not really. Never again, so long as he had Mycroft. And Gregory really wanted that, oh so very much. Especially with Mycroft. Only with Mycroft. And that was a scary, wonderful, terrifying thought indeed.

"Yes," he finally said, swallowing. "Yes, I think we are dating. I would like that very, very much. I would be absolutely happy with that."

Mycroft rarely smiles. And when he does, the majority of the time, he doesn't mean it. This time though, the action was brutally honest, showing just a hint of pearly-white teeth and bubble-gum pink gums and a flash of red tongue as he spoke again.

"Then there is nothing I would rather do, Gregory, than make you absolutely happy and with that, I must add, if that is what it takes. I find that I shall be rather happy as well," he said, that goofy smile still in place.

In the current position they were in, a kiss could easily be given and taken, and with much skill and practice and meaning behind it too. Mycroft and Greg both would be fools if they didn't use that to their advantage.

Needless to say, neither boy was a fool, and take advantage of their position they did.

* * *

><p><strong>So... hope that wasn't too bad. I'm sorry this is going down the loo. Hurumph. I'mma have to step it up a bit, yes? Yes. Right. Ok. Next chapter: X-MAs at Holmes Manor with... well, the important people of Baker House, I guess. <strong>

**Let's see how that goes, shall we?**

**Until then, REVIEW please. **

**And if you have gift ideas for the various characters to give each other...? And you want to share in your review...? I just might put it in and credit you! (I probably most likely definitely will, so you have absolutely nothing to lose. Remember: people get more than one gift at Christmas)**

**So. There. Gute nacht, mein lieben. **

**And if you don't know what ^THAT^ means I suggest you go to Google translate and turn it from German to English! It's nice actually. So don't worry if you don't get it. **

**REVIEW!**


	10. Wrong! Do It Again!

**Holy fucking shite, guiz, I'm SOOOOOOO SOOOOO SORRY this took so long to write. There are over thirteen thousand words though and it just... it was such a long chapter to write... I'm sorry. It might get a bit slow though, since I'm back to academics. But still. Christmas schtuffs here.**

**I'd like to thank you ALL for your incredible patience. I'd also like to thank all those that volunteered Christmas gifts. I'd be nowhere without you. I'd like to thank you all for the absolutely wonderful reviews I've been getting. They are what got me by in this chapter, honestly, no word of a lie. So thanks to all of you, really. Thank you. **

**So. Here it is. Greg meets the 'rents and such. I hope I did ok. I worked real hard on this, mein lieben. I did, I did, I did!**

**So!**

**Current Song: Wrong 'Em Boyo by The Clash (I fucking love them, you know?) **

**Current Thought: NO. NO. ACADEMICS. NO. HOMEWORK. NO. NO. NO. In other news... I got a haircut! Really short, but cute!**

**READ ON.**

* * *

><p><strong>Another Brick In The Wall: Part 10<strong>

Greg had gone Christmas shopping with Harry and Irene. Of course, they left his presence when he bought their gifts and he did the same when it was his turn. They also helped him pick out something decent for Mycroft, which was a relief because he really wanted to get the other boy something meaningful and it was. The gift really was.

The last day they were all still around, Greg packed a small suitcase for the two weeks he would be spending at Mycroft's: Christmas week and all the way up to New Years. They had a few days off after that before they came back to school. He was really looking forward to it too. Mycroft just happened to offer his help. Well, he said help. To Greg it was more of dictating what he would bring, what was necessary for a stay at the Holmes Manor. It went something like this:

"You'll need boots."

"Uh, why?"

"It's Kent, Gregory. It's going to snow."

So he packed them.

"You'll need that coat, no not your leather one, Gregory - though you can bring that too - the one stuffed with down."

"Why?"

"It's going to be cold."

He packed it.

"Oh, take that shirt, Greg. Take that one."

A sigh. This was becoming tiring. "Mycroft. _Bugger off_. I need to pack." A pause. "Why that one?"

A shrug. "You look absolutely delectable in it."

He packed the shirt.

He was reassured that Sherlock was doing the exact same thing to John, except John would watch Sherlock hastily pack both their bags and then John would have to go back and repack them so it wasn't a bleeding mess. Harry and Irene had already been packed for days. They were girls; of course they were. Jim had Sebastian pack for the both of them. Seb was neat and precise, military precise, all their things fitting into one suitcase and a carry-on bag.

They would be driving to Kent. Harry was bringing John and Sherlock, and Irene would be bringing Jim and Sebastian. From the school, it would take a good few hours to get to their destination, and as he lay in bed the night before they were to depart, Greg felt himself tense up with nerves.

God, he was going to meet Mycroft's parents. His mum. His Da. He was going to meet them and God, they were going to hate them, weren't they? He was just a village kid with silver hair and a penchant for footy who wanted to get with the Met. God, they would throw him out or at least now accept his and Mycroft's relationship. He didn't know if they would care how happy it made his son to be with Greg, because he saw the way Mycroft's eyes lit up whenever he was reminded by a touch or a kiss that Greg was his, all his, and if Greg could make Mycroft look like that everyday then his mission in life will have been accomplished and he would want for nothing, not a thing.

Just to see that look on Mycroft's face. That's it.

He slept that night, only by flipping onto his side and staring at Mycroft's oddly serene face in the moonlight that seeps in through their window blinds. The other boy's face was smooth and soft and his nose twitched as he dreamt. And wouldn't it be something else if Mycroft was dreaming about him, Greg thought. He stared some more, his eyes finally dropping and sending him off into a deep slumber.

And he would never know that that night Mycroft _was_ dreaming of him. He would never know because he wouldn't ask.

They were all packed. Harry and The Baker boys (John and Sherlock) had set off a half hour ago with Irene and the Crazy Boys following. Greg and Mycroft were required to leave last since Mycroft had to lock up Baker House over the holiday.

Which was why no one was there to see Greg incoherent at Mycroft's request.

"Wh-you said- and …I … wait, what?"

Mycroft slammed the trunk closed, giving Greg an odd look. And then he simply said, "I asked you to drive the car."

Greg blinked. His boyfriend had said it again. Drive the car. _Drive the car_. But they were taking the Jag. Was there some other car he was supposed to drive?

He licked his lips, his stomach fluttering when he realized Mycroft was following the movement. "Um, what car?"

Mycroft gave him a look that said he was obviously thick. "Greg, I only have the one with me," and he pointed to the Jag.

"I-I can't," Greg stuttered. Oh but he wanted to.

"Haven't you a license?" Mycroft asked slowly.

Greg did have one. He stupidly took it out to show Mycroft. His hair was still a bit brown in it. "Yeah. Yeah I do. But, it's- it's a… Mycroft _what if I crash her_?" He laughed. Mycroft Holmes laughed and yes, Greg would have made a complete idiot of himself more often if he had known the older boy could make a sound like that. But it was a bit aggravating, since Greg was being serious. "I'm serious, My."

At his nick-name, Mycroft looked up with a smile, his face red at his cheeks. "Gregory, it's a _car_. _If_ you crash it, which you won't, I assure you of this, then it does have insurance and can be replaced or fixed." He smiled, something a lot more small and private. "And as long as you were alright, I really wouldn't have a problem. Because, although you _can_ be fixed, you _cannot_ be replaced. So I'd rather not have you broken."

Greg felt the breath rush out of him and he walked over to Mycroft and carefully kissed him full on the mouth. He felt the other boy's hands slowly come around his waist. Maybe there would be a day when neither of them were surprised anymore, that they could do this and that it felt so good, but today, they would just have to settle for the surprise. Greg pulled back a bit and rubbed noses.

"It's when you shite like that that I can't keep myself from kissing you," he said softly.

Mycroft chuckled at his vulgarity. "I'd rather you _didn't_ keep yourself from kissing me." Greg smiled, shook his head, took a step back and then huffed in surprise as Mycroft threw him the Jaguar's keys and got in on the left side.

He grumbled to himself good-naturedly and got in on the right, sitting behind the wheel and closing the door. Greg took a moment to just feel the leather steering-wheel and then he slid the keys into the ignition, turned and gasped at the feeling of a perfectly oiled machine coming to life under him, all that fucking power at his finger tips. He felt like he was riding an animal, using a weapon. It was glorious.

He turned to Mycroft, to say thank you or something, maybe comment on the car and her absolute beauty, when the look on the other boy's face made him stop. He swallowed hard. Mycroft was heavy lidded and his mouth was in the shape of an 'o', his pinks lips in a perfect circle.

"What?" Greg asked. Currently, his hair was spiked up on his head. He was in a Sex Pistols t-shirt with a leather jacket thrown over it and his legs were clad in denims. He had his biker boots on, though he didn't own a bike _yet_, but he would one day and he mind as well get used to the weight of the shoes early.

Mycroft actually floundered about for a moment before he said, "I, for once in my life, was wrong."

"About?" Greg asked, now curious.

Mycroft looked out the window as he swallowed, cleared his throat and said, "You look much…_sexier_ sitting in the driver's seat of my car than I imagined you would. Much, _much_ sexier." He cleared his throat again and met Greg's eyes only to say, "I would like you to drive now. I promise I won't stare. _Much_."

And Greg pulled out of the lot and laughed the entire way onto the highway.

* * *

><p>The thing about the Holmes Manor? It really was a <em>manor<em>.

The place was huge with a large garden out back and woods off to the side. Greg actually stopped when he drove through a set of wrought iron gates. He honestly couldn't believe this. How…?

"Is this for real?" he asked.

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, unfortunately. Mummy went overboard a few years ago. But she just had to have her gates. Pull in over there." And he pointed to a garage that was done up nice off to the side. Greg pulled in and saw several cars he didn't recognize along with Harry and Irene's cars. Which meant everyone was already there.

Great.

Greg got out of the car, his breath already coming in shallow gasps and he grabbed both their bags. He wouldn't let Mycroft even take one. "So they can't see my hands shaking," was the reason he gave his boyfriend.

Mycroft's face softened. He cupped Greg's face softly and said, "They will adore you if for no other reason than because I do. Alright?" He kissed Greg's forehead and that was enough.

They headed into the house, going through the large front doors. Greg didn't know what he was expecting: maid service or a butler? Instead he got Sherlock, rolling his eyes and changed into denims and a purple hooded jumper and bare feet. He rolled his eyes and yelled behind him, "Mummy! Mycroft and his boyfriend are here." And then he gave them a sickly sweet smile and ran off to where John was calling him upstairs.

Mycroft didn't turn red like Greg. He just sighed and nodded for Greg to go inside. Which he did, hesitantly, and set the bags down as he heard the sound of footsteps come down the hall. Mrs. Holmes was not what Greg was expecting. She was shorter than Mycroft, a little smaller than Greg himself, and she had reddish hair (like Mycroft) but blue eyes (like Sherlock). Her face was all cheekbones and thin wrinkles that hid themselves well. Her hair had a few streaks of grey in it, but she hadn't dyed it.

She smiled softly at Greg as she said, "Hello. My name is Violet Holmes. I am Mycroft and Sherlock's mother. Welcome….?"

"Uh, Greg. Gregory Lestrade, yeah, hi," and Greg lifted a hand to shake hers. Oh he must be so red right now.

Mrs. Holmes blinked at him. On second thought, she was a bit thin and frail looking, her house dress hanging off her frame. Was she sick or…?

"Mycroft, is that any way to greet your mother?" she said, hands on her hips, smiling.

Mycroft sighed and smiled a little. He bent down a bit, kissing her cheek and said, "Hello Mummy, how are you?"

She sighed a bit tiredly, pulling him into a hug. "Oh just fine, darling. Although your brother and his new friends… your friends too, and I'm glad you can share friends, well, they're a bit of a handful, yes? Especially that little one, with the tall blond boy?"

"Jim and Sebastian?"

"Yes. They blew up the second floor bathroom," she said blandly.

Mycroft sighed. "I apologize on their behalf and I will be having a few words with them. I am sorry, mother."

She smiled and when she laughed, it sounded like bells. She was so proper and dainty. Greg thought she was wonderful. "It's fine. Not like Shirley wouldn't have done it eventually." She pulled away from Mycroft finally and looked to Greg. "You're room is the one across from Mycroft's Gregory. I hope you do enjoy your holiday with us." She shot a suggestive look to Mycroft then turned and walked away with a, "Dinner is at six," and then she was gone.

Greg looked at Mycroft. "So she… she knows you're gay, then?"

Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock and I decided to come out at the same time so neither of us would be pressured by them or used as an example." He snagged the suitcases himself now, much to Greg's chagrin, and led them up the stairs. "It was a smart move, I think , on our behalf. Although, Sherlock said he was 'asexual' or something like that." He shrugged. "I guess we're all allowed to change our minds, yes?"

He walked into what was to be Greg's room first and put that respective suitcase down. Then he carried his much smaller bag into his room. Mycroft had been loath to bring anything at all. The house had what he needed. He ended up just bringing a bag with a few things in it and what Greg assumed were some of the gifts he had purchased for everyone. Greg himself had a separate bag and box with his gifts for everyone. Christmas was, in fact , in two days.

Greg quickly unpacked, taking in the luxurious room as he did so. Silk sheets, hard wood oak on the bad and the floorboards. So was the closet and bureau. It was quite lovely. He changed out of his boots and stayed in socks, almost mimicking Sherlock and then he headed across the way to where Mycroft was in his room.

Changing clothes.

Greg yelped and walked out after he caught a glimpse of pale, creamy skin and a sprinkling of birthmarks with a light fuzz of orange hair below Mycroft's naval, disappearing down into his pants. Greg's face was flushed, he could feel it and he didn't even see the look on Mycroft's face. Oh goodness, he was a terrible person. Which was what made him turn on his heel as he walked out and look back inside to where Mycroft looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He was in dark denims, but he didn't have a shirt on, a crisp button-up in his hands. He seemed frozen to the spot and he wouldn't turn around, he only met Greg's eyes in the mirror and then looked away when they did lock together.

"I… I'm… shite, should I just leave?" Greg wondered aloud.

Mycroft's jaw clenched. "If you'd prefer," he said a bit icily.

And Greg couldn't figure out why his boyfriend was being so cold, not at all. What was his issue? Greg had apologized he hadn't meant to barge in on his privacy and walk in on him half naked with his body in plain view and-

Oh. _Oh_.

Gregory Lestrade was an idiot. He knew Mycroft was self-conscious about his body. He probably thought Greg was disgusted with him, when in all actuality it was the opposite. Greg felt like such a pervert at the odd need to touch that skin with his fingers and suddenly he was, his fingers ghosting down Mycroft's back, the other boy taking in a sharp breath.

"You have an issue," Greg said softly, moving closer to the other boy, so that he was almost pressed against his back. Greg's throat was so tightly closed, his hands shaking. His stomach was up in the air and really, he had no idea what he was doing. "You think you're fat or ugly, or some other rubbish," he continued. "But really, you are beautiful. _Jesus_ Mycroft, you're skin is so fucking _soft_." And it was a stupid thing to say, but Mycroft started to laugh, his back shaking against the hot press of Greg's hands against them. And it was good, because Greg had done something right.

"Soft? I'm bare-chested and all you have to say is that my skin is soft?" Mycroft said, turning around to face him, but keeping the white button-up between them as a sort of shield.

Greg took a deep breath himself and then slowly took Mycroft by the wrists lowering them and the shirt so he could get a full view of Mycroft's chest not reflected in the mirror. It was pale and lean, the nipples a soft brown-pink , tight and peaked. There were birthmarks scattered everywhere, freckles dotting in-between, and the same orange trail he'd seen from the mirror, leading down into Mycroft's pants. And no, Greg wasn't thinking of where that little trail led. _Much_.

"I think it's nice," he said, his voice sticking in his throat. He swallowed again, letting one finger trail down Mycroft's chest softly. He stopped at Mycroft's belly-button, circled around it and brushed his finger softly through the orange hair at his naval. Beautiful. It was the only word that his mind could come up with. Mycroft shivered a bit and Greg finally looked at Mycroft and smiled at the other boy's awed expression.

"I'm fat," he said, lost.

"No," Greg said, "you're just right." He stood on his toes and gave Mycroft's mouth a quick peck. "Now put on some clothes or-"

"And this is _not_ our room, Sebastian_. You liar_. Although ,the show _is_ nice. Do continue, gentleman. Pretend we aren't here," Jim said from the doorway, making Greg jump in fright, but not away.

"Bugger off, Moriarty," he said instead.

Mycroft simply said, "You blew up the bathroom. Leave before I kick you out of the house. And it's still early. You cease to amaze me with your stupidity."

Jim looked offended. Sebastian looked bored, but dragged Jim away when he made a scene about it. But Greg was only watching Mycroft. His face was red. He must have been embarrassed that Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran of all people had seen him without a shirt on, and really Greg knew he shouldn't have a problem with that, but Mycroft did and he wasn't feeling too grand.

"Hey, hey look at me," he said gently, turning Mycroft's face to his. "It's fine. Ignore him, he didn't see much of anything and if he did and says anything about it, then who cares? What does he matter? He _doesn't_. So."

Mycroft nodded and slowly smiled. "Correct, as always, Gregory." He started to slip his arms into the shirt, Greg absentmindedly helping. Once it was on, Greg buttoned it up, his mouth travelling a mile a minute about nothing in particular. It was when he left a button or two open at the top of the shirt that they both realized Greg had effectively dressed Mycroft.

They both blushed profusely, but after Greg dropped his hands, Mycroft picked one up with his own and wove their fingers together. He tugged Greg out the door, leading him down the hall and pointing out the two bed bedroom John and Sherlock were staying in and the single-bed bedroom Harry and Irene were in habiting. Jim and Sebastian had separate rooms, but more than likely, they would fall asleep on the couch downstairs together, instead of going their separate ways.

Mycroft led them down the stairs, determined to try and find everyone so he and Sherlock could give them a tour of the place. They found Harry and Irene in the kitchen with Mrs. Holmes, who was baking something, and Greg grabbed Mycroft's sleeve before they went in.

"What is the matter?" Mycroft asked.

Greg shook his head and said, "Where's your dad?"

Mycroft gave a soft smile. "Working. As per usual." Now he didn't look so happy.

"Mycroft," Greg said, asking his real question, "is your mum….is she sick? Or something?"

The look on Mycroft's face said that he was spot on. "She has a weak heart. She should have never had children, never mind _two_. It just made her heart weaker. She's got a pace-maker and medication but…" He sighed a bit, his shoulders falling. "Her heart could go out at any time if she strains herself." He made a face. "Not that that stops her…"

"I see where Sherlock gets his stubbornness from then," Greg said, jokingly, trying to break the ice that uncomfortable situation brought on them for a moment.

"You have no idea," Mycroft said dryly, then walked into the kitchen with Greg.

The girls looked up and smiled. "Took you two long enough to get here. You take a detour…?" Irene suggested innocently, then smirked impishly, Harry giggling alongside her.

"No," Greg said, a bit put out by them. They were not funny. At all. "I was driving. I didn't know the way. We got lost once or twice."

"Or three or four times," Mycroft muttered under his breath, making Harry giggle. "Mummy, have you seen Sherlock and Mr. Watson?"

"Doctor," she corrected gently, closing the stove and standing back.

"I-" Mycroft stopped. "Pardon?"

"Sherlock insists that his proper title is Dr. Watson."

"Why?" Greg asked, then blushed because it wasn't his conversation to butt into.

But Mrs. Holmes just smiled and said, "Apparently, young John wants to be a doctor when he's older. An army doctor, but still. A doctor nonetheless."

"Oh," Mycroft said, "Well that's-"

"Completely noble and courageous?" Sherlock said walking in, tugging John behind him by the sleeve.

"Is that a Holmes thing?" Jim asked, coming in behind them on Sebastian's shoulders. "The dragging-your-pet-around-by-the-hand/sleeve thing?"

Mycroft and Sherlock looked to each other, then their hands where Mycroft's was in Greg's and Sherlock's around John's jumper. They both let go at the same time and gave Jim a dirty look.

Greg sighed and John took back Sherlock's hand, this time in his own. They both also shot glares at Jim. "What?" he said, but he was smirking.

Mycroft shook his head. "Is father almost home?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" The voice was deep, like Sherlock's, a smooth baritone that came from the kitchen doorway. They all turned to look. The man was tall and thin, high cheekbones and raven hair with streaks of deep silver through them. His eyes were the same grey as Mycroft's, his hair the same shade as Sherlock's but with the silver of age running through it like veins in marble. He was straight-backed and in a suit, a cane in his hand, and Greg was reminded of Mycroft with his brolly. At least he knew where the other boy got the habit from.

"Father," Mycroft said politely. "Welcome home."

"Yes, father. Welcome home," Sherlock parroted, surprisingly. He didn't even glance at John, never mind the rest of them. Mycroft was doing the same thing.

The man nodded at the boys. "Welcome back from school, boys. I trust things were well?" They nodded and he did too. "Good, good." He glanced to the rest of them. "These are your…"

"Friends," Mrs. Holmes said kindly, walking through their group and to her husband, where she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on the mouth. "Welcome back, darling."

The change was immediate and drastic. Mr. Holmes' entire body relaxed to meld into hers and he gave a quirk of a smile, very similar to Sherlock's (Mycroft had more of his mother's smile). "My love," he whispered softly, so that everyone in the room, except Jim _of course_ who looked on in confusion at the display of affection, looked away to give them a moment of privacy.

"Jesus, Jim," Seb said in exasperation, turning all the way around so Jim wouldn't see the two adults greeting each other. The latter pouted but stayed put on the former's shoulders.

When it was over, Mr. Holmes cleared his throat and they all turned back. "My name is Siger Holmes. This is my wife, Violet, as I'm sure she's introduced herself. You are welcome in our home for the winter holiday. I hope you enjoy your stay." He looked to Mycroft then and the boy stood up straighter. "Mycroft, we've dismissed the help for the holiday. You and a few of your… friends would be thanked for setting up the dining room for dinner. Yes?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes sir." All that was missing was a salute.

"Good." Siger nodded and then he stopped and looked to Seb and Jim. "Except that one," and he pointed to Jim. "I don't want him near the silver."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from laughing and John smothered a giggle. The girls gave each other looks and kept up a straight face and Greg piped up, "I'll make sure of that, sir."

In surprise, Siger looked at him. "And you are?"

"_That_ is Gregory Lestrade," Mrs. Holmes said in hushed tones. At Siger's confused face, she shooed them all out of the kitchen and into the dining room, instructing Mycroft on where the silverware and plates and glasses were. They set up quietly, Jim softly mumbling as he watched, refusing to come down from Sebastian's shoulders, making it impossible for the other boy to help out as well.

Once that was done, Sherlock was dispatched to the kitchen and came back with his hands full. That got Irene and Harry going as well. John attempted, of course because his good breeding preempted him to, but Sherlock made him sit. His leg had been bothering him again. The last thing any of them wanted was for him to strain it.

"Damn my leg!" John exclaimed, just as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes walked in with the last of their dinner. Mrs. Holmes looked scandalized. Mr. Holmes looked unimpressed. Sherlock merely slapped a palm to his face, and John was beet red. "I-I apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, honestly, I do. I really do, it's just my leg and-"

"There will be no foul language in this household," Siger said crisply. "I will excuse you this once."

"It's quite alright, dear," Violet said softly to John, patting his shoulder.

Mycroft silently wished for the night to be over. Greg had to agree.

They all finally sat for the meal, everyone sitting next to their respective partners, with Siger and Violet Holmes at the head of the table and their sons on either side of them, with their partners on either side of them. Irene and Harry were on John and Sherlock's side. Mycroft and Greg were stuck with Moran and Moriarty. And then Jim spoke. A terrible thing, that.

"_So_ I blew up the bathroom…."

Mr. Holmes kindly told him to eat his food and shut up, lest he throw the fool out of their house. Then the older man said tightly, "Anyone interested in the military?"

John raised a tentative hand and got a look of dubiousness from Siger, the man gesturing toward his leg. "Oh, no. I don't mean a soldier. But uh, a doctor? An army doctor. Yeah. That. My shoulder's a bit stiff after… a, uh, accident I was in, and my leg is messed up a bit as well, but I can still do decent doctoring."

"Hmmm," Siger said thoughtfully. "I've had my life saved many a time by a good medic."

"You're in the service?" Sebastian asked, curious. He stabbed at his steak with his knife and ate it right off, Mrs. Holmes kindly asking him to use a fork. Sebastian did. He thought she was a good sort, a nice mum. Jim just snorted and ate like he was a first class citizen.

"_Was_, I _was_ in the service. I work in the government now," he corrected, this time gently. "I was mostly gone when the boys were younger." And that explained the strained, almost military-like relationship between The Holmes Brothers and their father. Greg stole a glance at Mycroft and the other boy was looking stonily at the wall.

"And you? What are you planning on doing with yourself after school? Violet tells me you're in your third year of high school, just a year behind Mycroft." It took Greg a moment to realize that Siger was speaking to him now.

He cleared his throat and finished swallowing the bite of his food. Did Siger know about him and Mycroft or….? "Uh, well…. I want to go into law enforcement. I've been informed that I could get a good starting spot on the Met when I leave school. I still may go to uni though. Seems like a good idea to have a back up." He swallowed, this time, out of nerves.

Siger looked at him oddly, then looked slowly to where Mycroft was sitting beside him. "Is that so? Mycroft. What is your opinion on this endeavor?"

Mycroft sat up even more straight if that was possible and said stiffly, "I believe that Gregory has the mind set, capability and the talent to achieve such a goal and go to uni at the same time. He's an intelligent student and quick to learn. Sir."

Siger looked like he was going to say more to his eldest son, but he switched gears and turned to Sebastian instead to ask him something. Meanwhile, Mrs. Holmes was speaking softly to Irene and Harry about something or the other. Sherlock and John spoke quietly amongst themselves. Sherlock didn't look happy. John seemed to be trying to calm him.

"And you, Sebastian, is it? What is your plan for the future?"

Sebastian shrugged. "I can shoot well. I'll probably join the military. Maybe go out for a sniper." He shrugged again. "Or work with Jim." He nodded to the boy beside him.

Siger turned to Jim. "What will _you_ do?" Jim smiled. And then he launched into a large speech on statistics, banks, the stock market and everything in-between. Siger blinked and asked, "And that has to do with this how?"

Jim may have looked insulted. "I have all the knowledge to do as I please, Mr. Holmes. All I need is someone to ask for it."

"For what?"

"_Exactly_."

Siger looked to Sebastian who raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Mycroft tried not to groan and Greg snuck a hand under the table and took Mycroft's for a moment, giving it a brief squeeze. He returned the hand with a grin, and Mycroft grinned back. Anything to make him smile, Greg realized. That was what he would do for the other boy. _Anything_ to make him smile.

Dinner went on quietly, and oddly enough, Siger never really spoke directly to Sherlock. Greg didn't know whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he did know that something was bothering Mycroft about his father and that he was going to get it out of the other boy if it was the last thing he did.

Once dinner was over, Greg helped Harry stack the dishes and bring them into the kitchen where Mrs. Holmes was washing them. It was only seven o'clock by then, still fairly light out. Mr. Holmes was changing out of his clothes presumably, and had disappeared. Mycroft then followed Greg into the kitchen, standing by the doorway as he watched his boyfriend help his mother wash dishes. Violet Holmes stopped washing and gave Mycroft a stern look, to which the boy returned with a nod and then left.

"Mr. Holmes doesn't know about me, does he?" Greg asked softly as he put a dish back in the cupboard.

She sighed, her tiny, frail body shaking. "He doesn't know about any of you. Mycroft is taking the responsibility of explaining it all to him. They don't… have the best of relationships. Siger was gone until Mycroft was fifteen. He's only really had a few years with his father and they haven't been well. Siger doesn't know his children. They aren't what he thought they would be," and now she sounded angry and a bit upset. "But he needs to accept that." She took in a deep breath and almost fell over and in seconds Greg had her sitting in a chair, Harry with a glass of water ready. Violet laughed shakily. "Thank you. I'm sorry, about that."

"You get weak fast," Harry observed. Violet nodded. "Maybe you should sleep? Go to bed a bit early?"

But Mrs. Holmes shook her head. "Not yet."

She was waiting for Mycroft to get back, Greg realized, his eyes meeting with Harry's. He was lad, at that moment, that Sherlock was entertaining the rest of their little group while they took care of this. So Greg pulled up a chair and so did Harry and they talked about school and his footy matches and so on until they heard the sound of feel on stairs and Mycroft walked in looking tired.

Greg was out of his seat in seconds flat, missing the knowing look shared between Harry and Violet Holmes. He wrapped his arms around the taller boy almost immediately, held him close as Mycroft clung, lost for a while, and finally brought back to his senses by the feel of Greg there and close.

"Ok?" Greg asked, swallowing hard, hoping that his nerves weren't showing. He hoped he was doing this comfort thing correctly. Mycroft really needed him right now.

"Yes. Just fine," Mycroft replied quietly. "Thank you."

"That's what I'm here for, love."

Mycroft smiled then looked at his mother as he gently pulled away from Greg. "He was not happy."

"I don't care if he wasn't happy. Was he at least understanding?" Mycroft's mother said softly.

At this Mycroft sighed. "That he was. Although he is still holding out for Sherlock and I to find a 'good British girl' and for the others as well." Now he spared Harry a look. "He thinks you and Irene are going through a phase as well. Thinks you'll find a bloke right for you."

Harry made a face. "No offence to you boys, but I have no interest in men. Period." She gave a slight shudder. "Just – no."

Mycroft sighed. "I know, Harriet, I know."

Mrs. Holmes stood up and said, "I'll speak with him then." She straightened her dress and walked out and up the stairs.

At that same moment, the others wandered in. Sherlock was in the lead, his hand in John's, Jim and Seb following behind with Irene picking up the caboose. Sherlock made a face and then said, "She's gone to speak with him, hasn't she?" And Mycroft just nodded. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Greg took Mycroft's hand.

"I apologize for this inconvenience," Mycroft said softly, the muscle in his jaw jumping a bit.

"_Don't_," Sherlock snapped. "He's an idiot."

"Well I don't like him," Jim said, quickly shushed by Irene.

With that said, the rest of them were quiet until Mrs. Holmes came back down. She merely shoo her head and went to the sink, staring at the unfinished dishes. When Harry tried to help, Violet waved her away.

Mycroft just sighed and said, "Mummy, I'd like to take them on a tour of the manor and grounds. Would that be alright?"

She turned from the sink and nodded. "Yes. Remember it'll be dark soon, Mycroft. And Sherlock? Help your brother. And no arguments, please."

Sherlock's mouth was halfway open with said argument when John nudged him a bit and shook his head. "Not good?" the young Holmes in question asked softly.

"Bit not good, yeah," John replied honestly.

Harry and Irene got up and nodded to the door. Mrs. Holmes seemed to be staring out into space, not looking at any of them as they left. Even Jim seemed a bit freaked out, high on Sebastian's shoulders. "Ok. That was weird. Care to explain?" he said, directed to Mycroft.

Mycroft merely sighed, Greg taking his hand again in support. "She isn't well. She shouldn't even be cleaning. Father will be a bit cross that she's working herself like this. But, nothing can be done about that now. So. Shall we?"

He led them around the manor first, avoiding the master bedroom suite, which was impressive with old Victorian-style architecture and old fashioned but tasteful furniture. It had many guest bedrooms and spare rooms that were for nothing but sitting around in. It was still lovely. There was a room full of art and paintings and sculptures and there was a library that they briefly passed by, but that Mycroft promised to show Greg in depth later. They ended back in the main sitting room where there was a tree, professionally decorated with tinsel and expensive ornaments bought at Tiffany's. Under it were gifts, all wrapped in different kinds of paper, some even in _newspaper_, and others in professionally done-up packages.

It was a perfect symbol for their little discombobulated family they had at the moment. Greg holding Mycroft's hand, Jim still on Sebastian's shoulders, John and Sherlock gravitated towards each other, Irene and Harry leaning casually against each other.

"You know, next year, we should decorate it," Greg said out of nowhere, then almost smacked himself in the forehead. He had been assuming there would be a next year, that he would still be with Mycroft, that John would still be with Sherlock, Irene still with Harry and Sebastian still with Jim. And maybe, now that he thought of it, they would be.

Either way, Mycroft smiled and said softly, "Yes. Yes we definitely should. That will a day to remember."

From atop Sebastian's shoulders, Jim said brightly, "And I can bring in that one ornament I have." He looked down at Seb. "Remember the ornament, Sebby?"

"No."

Jim frowned. "You must. It was the one with-"

"_I know, Jim,_" Sebastian groaned.

"Yes, but you said-"

"You're _not_ bringing that one," Sebastian said a bit finalized. Jim made to say something else, but just pouted. He waved away their curious questions. "Trust me. I'm doing you all a favor. Are we going outside this damned place?"

And that was what led them outside into the snow, bundled up against the winter chill. They had all split up for a moment to go to their respective rooms and get something warmer on and Mycroft had walked in before Greg was ready. He caught the younger boy struggling into his warmest coat (the one Mycroft insisted he bring) and he sighed, walking over, and helped him shimmy into it.

Greg's head popped up, a bit surprised to see Mycroft, but then he just made a face and snatched his hat, shoving it onto his head, the puffed up bit sticking up on top of his head making Mycroft suppress a giggle at the sight. "Shut up," Greg growled and made his way to the front door, whipping his scarf on. Everyone was dressed similarly, Jim on the floor this time, and Sherlock had this odd gleam in his eyes. Greg should have known that something was about to happen. He just chose not to trust his gut feeling.

Mycroft and Sherlock showed them all around the grounds. In the spring and summer, and early autumn too, there was a garden back here and a lake further back, frozen over now and recommended for ice skating if anyone was interested. Instead of the garden, there was only a snow covered field, the lake hidden somewhere under all the snow. It was gorgeous, the snow sparkling in the failing light of day.

It was Sherlock who started it.

All of a sudden, Greg felt icy-cold mush flowing down the neck of his coat and jumper and he squealed, turning around to see Sherlock smiling innocently and Jim giggling hysterically. Instead of hitting the more obvious Holmes, Greg bent down, picked up a handful of snow and chucked it at Jim's person, hitting him straight in the face. The other boy spluttered and wiped the cold, frozen water off his face before angrily picking up a snowball of his own and whipping it at Greg. Who ducked and let it hit Irene in the back of the head, soaking her hair.

It was all out war after that.

Greg grabbed Mycroft by the sleeve and dove into a snow drift as Irene threw more snow at them, Harry backing her up and aiming for Jim, who got scooped up by Sebastian and dragged behind a tree where they could battle it out. John had tackled Sherlock to the ground as he let an onslaught of snow go at his sister and her girlfriend. Snow flew, Mycroft making the balls of snow and handing them to Greg to throw. Sherlock and John had a similar thing going on behind the small wall of snow they had fashioned and Jim was throwing snow from the top of a tree, Sebastian throwing it from the ground. Irene and Harry didn't have any cover, but they honestly didn't need it. In minutes, everyone was soaked and freezing and Greg couldn't feel his face, but he was laughing to hard and had tears in his eyes because he thought that he had missed out on this, this togetherness with people he would never suspect to be amazing.

Mycroft glanced over at him in the lull between snowballs, everyone scrambling in the snow to make more, and he stopped in surprise. "Gregory!" he exclaimed upon seeing Greg's tears. "Are you alright?"

He wiped away at the warm water trailing down Greg's cheeks and the other boy laughed. "I'm absolutely brilliant," Greg responded and then shimmied his way through the snow, staying low enough that the snow drift still covered him, and he kissed Mycroft with cold lips meeting cold lips, puffs of air escaping and coming up between them as Greg cautiously slid his tongue inside Mycroft's mouth, and licked around, the cold melting away into absolutely blissful heat.

And then there was yelling and a ton of snow was dumped on them, causing Greg to gasp at the sudden chill and Mycroft to grab onto him tightly. From the tree not that far away, Jim made a face and shook the branch he was sitting on again, so that more snow fell on them, not dumping this time, since there wasn't much left.

"It's war via snowball fight, gentlemen," Jim said blandly, with a hint of disgust, "not play-time. Although you may succeed in murdering me with PDA."

A moment later and a well aimed snowball from Greg got Jim in the face again and he pin-wheeled backwards and out of the tree, crashing into Sebastian on the ground. The two boys groaned while the rest of them laughed, and that was when Mycroft noticed Greg's lips were turning purple.

"They are?" the other boy said, touching them and then realizing he couldn't feel them. Or his fingers. It had started to snow again some time ago and they were all shivering. Harry's hair was wet and limp, as was Irene's, and Sherlock and Jim were both equally red in the face with cold. John and Sebastian maintained their tanned look, but were both cold as well, shivering appropriately. Mycroft wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Yes," he said. "Purple. Like a bruise."

"Or like they're freezing," Sherlock quipped from the ground where he and John still were. Everyone met in the middle of the field, snow in tufts and craters around them, the flakes falling in a flurry.

"I propose this: we go inside for some hot cocoa, coffee or something stronger for those of age?" Mycroft said pleasantly, but pulling Greg closer to where he could feel that delicious body heat.

"God yes," John almost moaned.

"Yeah, it's fucking freezing," Sebastian added, and then yelped as Jim unzipped his coat. "_What the fuck James_?" He only called Jim's by his full name when he was explicitly angry.

"Sebby, I'm cold," Jim said petulantly, pressing his cold body to Sebastian's semi-warm one under the coat, the other boy hissing in discomfort.

"Yes, inside. Let's do that." Sebastian wrapped his arms around Jim and rolled his eyes.

They headed in with a few nods, Jim mostly carried by Sebastian, John huddling with Sherlock, Irene on Harry's back and Greg pressed close to Mycroft. As they made their way over a drift of snow, greg felt Mycroft' grip on him get tighter.

"What, are you afraid you'll lose me in all the snow?" he asked jokingly.

Mycroft shook his head silently. "Not that."

"Then what?"

"Well-"

There was a crack and Greg felt icy cold hit him as the snow –no, the _ice _– cracked beneath his feet and he was halfway submerged.

The lake. Well, looks like he'd found it.

Greg yelped and the words were stuck in his throat as he felt the cold seep into his clothes and up his legs, around his waist and almost to his torso. Then he was being yanked and there was yelling and it was a mess of people and voices and Greg just wanted it all to stop. And he wanted warmth. Yeah, that too.

"Oh shite, Mycroft pull him out, _pull him out_!"

"I am, _stop_ yelling. Sherlock _help_ me! John go open the door, Harry go with him." Then in Greg's ear: "Hold on a moment, my own. _Hold on."_ Farther away. "_Sherlock_!"

"I'm right here!" A tug, a yank, the cold wasn't receding , but he was becoming less wet. "Jim, Sebastian. _Help_."

"No."

"_James_, knock it off."

"_Fine_."

He was out of the water now, snow freezing on his face, but he was so numb with cold all he could do was shiver and shake and quake.

"Irene, grab my coat. There, yes. Help me wrap him up. Gregory. Gregory, can you hear me?" It was Mycroft and he was in someone's arms and _God_ it was cold. It was freezing. He shivered violently and buried his face in _Mycroft's_ neck, his hair damp with cold water and snow. "John, keep the door open."

A blast of warmth was followed by the sound of footsteps and then Mycroft was carrying him into the sitting room where the fire was going in the fire-place. He was placed on the rug in front of it and he couldn't stop shaking. His head was feeling dizzy and spinning. Oh God, he felt like he was going to vomit. Oh no, oh no_, oh no_.

"What the hell do we _do_? He's fucking blue!" Greg heard Sherlock say somewhere behind him. Harry and Irene came closer to him, sat beside him, rubbed his back, tried to comfort him. Greg was crying, oh god, he hadn't even noticed. Mycroft looked absolutely wrecked where he was kneeling in front of him.

"_Shut up_!" John exclaimed, hobbling over. "He looks like he's going into hypothermic shock. So." He turned to Mycroft. "We need to bring his temperature up and back to normal. Mycroft, does your room also have a fire-place?"

Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock, go start a fire in there, will you?" The younger boy nodded and dashed off.

"Now, we'll need more blankets," John continued. "So…"

"Harry, Irene," Mycroft said, the two girls standing. "Down that left corridor there is a room. I'd say it was a linen closet, but it's not. It's more of a linen room. It's full of blankets, and sheets and linens. In the farthest closet are all the quilts and blankets. Bring those up to my room and make up the bed with them. Just call for Sherlock if you can't find it." They nodded, dashing off. Meanwhile, Jim and Seb just sat on the couch. They couldn't be bothered and everyone knew it.

"Now… uh… here's where you might not like it." John took a deep breath. "The fastest way to get him warm will be to strip him to his underwear and put him in the bed."

"What's so bad about-"

"And then _you_ need to strip to your underwear and get in with him," John finished. Jim snorted and Sebastian stifled a chuckle at Mycroft's shocked face.

"John are you serious?"

"Yes," the other boy said solemnly. "No, really Mycroft_, I am_. It'll share the body heat faster, even under all the blankets. You'll have to cuddle him. Sort of. Keep him close." Greg didn't even care. He wasn't even listening anymore. He was falling asleep actually, shivering and damp. He ignored whatever Mycroft was saying to him – which was asking him if he was alright with the situation – and settled for laying his head on Mycroft's shoulder and nodding consent to whatever. As long as he was able to stay asleep.

Mycroft sighed and nodded. "Alright. Help me get him mostly out of these clothes." John and Mycroft started stripping Greg of his damp clothes, the latter dozing off as they did so.

"_What_ in the name of everything good are you _doing_?"

Mycroft froze. And then he stood up and turned around, letting John finish unclothing most of Greg. He faced his father with a straight face. "We are currently undressing Gregory."

"Yes, I can see," Siger said in a hard voice. "Why?"

"He found the lake," Mycroft said dryly. His father raised an eyebrow. "He fell in. He's freezing. According to Mr. – excuse me, _Doctor_ Watson, stripping him and then cuddling him close with my body heat will raise his temperature again and avoid going to hospital."

Something snapped in Siger's eyes. "I'm guessing you'll be without most of your clothing as well?"

"Yes, sir," Mycroft said coldly.

On the couch, Jim and Sebastian had gotten hot cocoa from the kitchen and were staring at the show-down between father and son animatedly. Jim kept whispering heatedly, taking out money, handing it to Seb and giggling. Sebastian was quite silent on his part, watching with rapt attention.

"No. You won't," Siger said, in a tone of voice that brooked no room for an argument.

Mycroft's eyes blazed. "No disrespect is meant sir when I tell you that I _will_ _certainly_ be doing that."

"No. Irene and Harry will. It's more appropriate," Siger responded just as the girls in question walked in, stunned.

Mycroft's eye twitched. "Is it now? Last I recalled, they were dating _each other_, _not_ Gregory. _I_ am in a relationship with him, which makes him _my_ responsibility. _Not_ theirs." Meanwhile, John was just trying to keep Greg mostly awake, in case the other boy had to run.

"I'm sure you think so _now_, but-" Siger started.

"_Fuck you_," Mycroft spat. Sherlock froze where he was walking in at the doorway and looked to John. John spread his hands in his defense and looked at him incredulously. Sherlock shrugged and shook his head back. Where the _hell_ had that come from?

Mycroft stood there, a bit shocked on the inside but staring his father down. He took a step toward the other man, absolutely seething with fury as his parent watched him come closer without moving himself.

"I am sick of you treating the relationship I am in as though it were a joke or less serious because my partner and I are of the same sex. I am sick of you demeaning my friends; when they are right in the room no less! Harry and Irene share a bed, for Christ's sake! Sherlock and John will probably sneak into the other's bed if one of them can't sleep. Jim and Sebastian won't even sleep in their rooms; they'll bunk on the couch, together, because they _are_ together." Mycroft gritted his teeth and then he whispered, so only his father could hear, "You don't _choose_ who you fall in love with, _sir_. It just _happens_." He closed his eyes, tightly, fighting tears.

And when Mycroft opened them, Greg was standing, hanging off his arm, his head on Mycroft's shoulder, offering support in the only way he could. Mycroft gripped his arm so the other boy wouldn't fall, and then he looked in his father's eyes.

And saw… _pride_?

Siger was nodding, a proud look on his face, as if his son finally standing up to him had changed his mind about something vital. "Very well," he said crisply. "Carry on, then, before the poor boy freezes." He turned on his heel, then, and walked right out, past Sherlock, mussing up the boy's hair as he walked by.

Jim looked to Sebastian then, and broke the silence saying, "I _like_ him."

* * *

><p><em>Warmth<em>.

That was all Greg was aware of. It was warm and there was something soft that his face was pressed against and really, he didn't want to open his eyes, but he was because he wasn't sure where he was exactly.

He noticed three things when he did. One: he was in his underwear. _Only_ his underwear. Two: he was in Mycroft's room. He recognized the ceiling. And three: Mycroft was wrapped around him. And in his underwear as well. _Only_ his underwear.

His heart was in his throat. Oh goodness, he really didn't remember what had happened… was it yesterday? He couldn't remember. He really couldn't. All he knew was that he really liked the warmth and the intimacy and the fact that he was in Mycroft's bed. But had they…? Had they done anything?

His mother was going to _kill_ him if they hadn't used protection.

"You were in hypothermic shock." Greg looked to the side, away from the ceiling, at Mycoft's face. He looked a bit tired. He probably hadn't slept, not much. "So we stripped you, got some blankets and… got me in here as well. Body heat, you see, will bring up your temperature. John said you might not recall it all…" Mycroft hoped Greg didn't remember the conversation, well the argument really, with his father.

All Greg felt was relief. Not at the fact that they _didn't_ have sex, but at the fact that he wasn't pathetic enough to _not_ remember if they did.

Greg slowly turned on his side, his back to the fire, and looked at Mycroft's face. Or else his eyes would wander….

"Uh… yeah, no. I don't recall. What's the time?" Anything to keep from looking down. Anything. Oh God. Oh God.

"A bit after midnight," Mycroft said with a knowing smile. "You can look Gregory. I'm not fully naked, you know."

And was it so wrong that Greg immediately lifted the surrounding covers to have a peek? Because he really just wanted to see Mycroft's legs. He was really curious about his legs. His bare legs.

"You… your knees…." Greg was absolutely speechless.

Mycroft swallowed hard. "Yes? What about them?" He kept absolutely still.

"Your knees… have dimples… That's…."

"Shows that I am overweight?" Mycroft said dryly, not looking down, but instead at the ceiling.

"That's adorable," Greg said with a chuckle. "Can I touch?" He looked up when he heard a sharp intake of breath and Mycroft was slowly nodding. He was also blushing. Like, a full body flush. The pink extended from his cheeks to his neck, down his chest in a 'v'. Greg let his fingers trail over the hot skin of his chest where the blood surged in embarrassment. His ears were probably red with the embarrassment of the tender act, but Greg really just wanted to touch.

He went for Mycroft's dimpled knees next, tracing the hollow of the dimple and smiling. "It's cute. I like it." He let his fingers trail up and then stopped at Mycroft's upper thigh, right near his underwear line. Greg stayed clear of that. He traced the angry reddish-purple marks and looked up at Mycroft. "What are these?"

Mycroft looked embarrassed again. "Stretch marks," he mumbled. "I was… years 6 through 8 I was especially overweight. Husky Holmes, they called me." Greg frowned at that. No one should have been calling Mycroft any of that. "So, before high school, I switched to healthier foods, exercised, participated in physical education. I got thinner… but the stretch marks stayed. And I'm still a bit above what I should be." He made a shrugging movement. "And so goes the world."

Greg rubbed at the marks then said, "I think you're perfect, you know that?" He looked up at the older boy. "No. Really. I… I…" He swallowed hard then just said it. "I like your body." Up until this moment, Greg was able to keep it all comfortable and nonsexual. But now? After admitting that out loud? He felt his cock twitch and was then aware that he was in boxers and that his erection would be easily seen. So he dropped a quick kiss to Mycroft's stomach and crawled back up to the top of the bed where the other boy was watching him with sleepy eyes.

"We should get back to sleep?" Greg suggested.

"You should. I should actually sleep this time," Mycroft corrected.

"_Myke_," Greg said reproachfully as the other boy pulled him close and back under the covers.

"Shh, I just wanted to make sure you were alright. You fell into that freezing water… I… you were blue and I…." He swallowed hard and Greg could hear all the worry in his voice.

"Hey. I'm fine now. Thanks to you. So, sleep, yes?" Greg said, curling his arms around the ones that were around him. He liked this, this cuddling thing. Mycroft's hot skin pressed against his back, his warm, heavy arms around his chest. It was comforting and perfect and Greg felt his eyes drooping shut again. He fought for consciousness, but Mycroft shook his head and kissed the back of his neck gently, saying, "Sleep."

And he did.

Mycroft followed an hour later after Greg's breathing had evened out and normalized.

* * *

><p>Mycroft woke up first. He decided quietly to let Greg sleep in. He must have been tired, because it was already ten in the morning and the other boy was still asleep. Mycroft let him have his rest. After all, it was Christmas Eve.<p>

He quickly and quietly changed, watching Greg the entire time as he did so, the way the weak winter sun spilled light onto the other boy's golden skin, pooling down his back, lighting up every freckle and birthmark. Mycroft had slept beside that. And it had been addicting, the feel of smooth skin beneath his own, warm and alive. He'd loved it. And Greg had too by the way he'd been clinging the entire night through, amazed by Mycroft's dimpled knees.

He still couldn't get over that. His _knees_. Greg liked his _knees_. Mycroft found himself grinning like a fool, leaned against his doorjamb, just watching the other boy sleep.

"So you're falling for him?"

Mycroft didn't even pretend to be surprised. He had heard Sherlock coming. So instead, he just nodded slowly and said, "It seems I am."

"Hmm," his younger brother said. "You're alright with that?"

"Mmm," Mycroft responded in the affirmative. "Yes. Indeed I am."

"No turning back now, is there?"

"No. None at all."

"Good. You're lucky I like him as much as I do. So you're letting him sleep in then?"

"You're letting John, I assume?" Mycroft responded, not turning once.

Sherlock gave a chuckle. "He's been up for ages. It's like he doesn't sleep."

"Ah. Finally found someone to rival your odd sleeping patterns?" Mycroft teased lightly.

"Seems so," Sherlock responded quietly. "Harry and Irene are making pancakes. Join us?" he said, a bit too bright.

Mycroft sighed and nodded, turning around. "Why not?"

* * *

><p>Greg woke up alone an hour later. He scrubbed a hand across his face and rubbed his eyes, running his fingers through his hair. It was almost eleven. God he'd slept in late.<p>

He got out of Mycroft's bed, fighting a smile and losing, stretching. Making his way to his room, he slipped into denims and the shirt Mycroft so enjoyed seeing him in before he padded down the stairs barefoot and to the kitchen. Mycroft was sitting there alone with a lone cuppa and a plate with a few pancakes on it. Greg bent forward when he got close enough and gave Mycroft a quick peck on the mouth, the action feeling so natural he just had to give into it.

Mycroft smiled against his mouth, tasting of PG Tips and maple syrup. "Morning," he said softly.

"Morning," Greg answered. He looked around. "Where is everyone exactly?"

Mycroft gave a small yawn as Greg scrounged up some coffee and took a few pancakes accepting Mycroft's offer of syrup. "They went off to a nearby village. And no, we're not going."

"Why not?"

"You need to rest up," Mycroft said simply. "After yesterday…." He really just didn't want Greg outside yet. Not so soon.

Greg got it though, respected that the other boy was worried about him. "Your parents then? Where are they?"

Mycroft sighed. He'd explained it in a nicer way to everyone else when Jim had made the observation that their parents were not around. To Greg he bluntly said, "They're off on their yearly stop at the hospital. Mummy can't really spend Christmas at home. She… needs help. She usually goes Christmas Eve through the New Year holiday. Father accompanies her. An uncle of ours used to, when our father was in the military. Now father does."

Greg nodded, eating slowly. "That why you guys wanted us over?"

Mycroft chuckled. Sebastian had asked the same thing. "Part of it, yes. I also just wanted them to meet you. You're important to me too, Gregory."

Greg smiled, ducked his head a bit. "I… uh… I know," he responded. "And… I'm glad of that. Really. So what are we going to do today?" He felt a bit weak, that was true, and he was fine with staying indoors.

"Well, for now, we'll lie-in a bit. Until the others get back, which will be much later. Sherlock is having too much fun showing them around. Don't worry, I'll take you in a few days, just the two of us." Greg liked that idea. Very much. "When they get back, we'll have something to eat and then get ready for tonight. We'll do one present each and then," now he shrugged, "open the rest of the gifts tomorrow morning I suppose. Sound alright to you?"

Greg nodded his assent. It was the first Christmas in a while he was going to spend with other people. "Now, you said lie-in…? What do you have in mind?"

"Well…."

* * *

><p>"Mycroft, this is an odd idea for a lie-in. We aren't really lying-in, are we?"<p>

They were on the couch, in front of the fire, the telly on, a home video of when Sherlock was a toddler playing. He was a curly haired menace with large eyes. Mr. Holmes was nowhere to be found, but Mrs. Holmes, was young and frail and beautiful, laughing as Sherlock sat on Little Mycroft's lap and tugged on his hair. It was cute though.

"Well, I thought you might want to see," Mycroft said, a bit flustered. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Oh, it's wonderful, love," Greg said. He was laying in Mycroft's lap, a quilt over the two of them. Every once in a while, he'd shiver and Mycroft would hold him closer. "Don't misunderstand me. It's just… I kind of want to see one of you. When you were small…_er_, that is."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, and then he got out from under Greg and popped in an older looking video. He sat down quickly and looked away from the screen. Siger Holmes was the first one in this video. He looked significantly younger and was actually smiling like he meant it. Violet Holmes looked a lot less frail and was glowing with happiness. And then there, on her lap, gurgling and with a shock of rust colored hair, Mycroft. He looked about a little under a year old, and he was smiling and reaching for his father with chubby little palms.

Greg sat up and forward and leaned toward the telly, his eyes wide. Mycroft's eyes were a quick-silver color, his cheeks like little apples. He had a few teeth and was smiling. He was _precious_, absolutely _precious_. Dressed in a diaper and socks and nothing more, his squealing laughs were adorable as his mother tickled the tummy he was now ashamed of, his father kissing his forehead lovingly.

"That was before… before Mummy got really sick and Father left for the military. That was almost eighteen years ago." Mycroft laughed a bit bitterly. "And then…" He shook his head. "He wasn't even there for Sherlock's birth. My brother feels like our father neglects him a bit and puts too much expectation on my shoulders, and he's right; it's because he doesn't really know Sherlock, and he never tried…."

Greg laced his and Mycroft's fingers together, holding his hand tightly, pausing the video. "I'm sorry," Greg said. "Family isn't supposed to be that way."

"I know…" Mycroft answered. "Sherlock and I have only ever really had each other for family though, and we still don't get along." He sighed and then Mycroft smiled a bit. "But we've got John, now. And Harry and Irene. And even Jim and Sebastian. And you…" He tugged Greg closer by the hand, wrapping his hands around him this time. "And I think _this_ family is doing just fine."

They stayed in that position until they heard the others coming in from their afternoon out. By then, the video had played through and the TV screen was blue.

* * *

><p>Greg tossed and turned in bed. He felt something in his chest tugging him across the hall and to Mycroft's room and really, he wanted to follow the feeling. He did. But…<p>

What if Mycroft didn't want him there? What would Greg do if he were rejected? It would hurt. And he didn't want to start tomorrow off with an argument. It was Christmas! Oh what should he do, he wondered. Maybe he could… oh but no…maybe… No. Just-no.

Greg snuck out of bed, and opened the door, gazing at the room across the way from his. The light was off, there was no light coming from under the door besides from the fire. Greg didn't have one in his spare room. He could always use that as an excuse.

He finally just took the initiative and made his way over, knocking lightly before entering. Mycroft's head lifted sleepily from his pillow, the hair on one side of his head flat, the other side mussed up. He squinted then said, surprise coloring his voice, "Gregory? Are you alright?"

He could say so many things. His room was too cold. He had a nightmare. He was bored. He wanted to leave and Mycroft should talk him out of it. Or, he could simply tell the truth.

"I couldn't sleep," he said.

"Why not?" Mycroft asked, sitting up, stifling a yawn.

Greg took a deep breath. "I… uh… well…" He cleared his throat. "_You_ weren't there."

Mycroft looked like he was caught in the headlights. "Ah."

"Yeah…"

The older boy didn't even hesitate. He pulled back the sheets and said, "Well? Are you coming in or not? Shut the door behind you so the heat doesn't get out."

Greg blinked then nodded, closing the door, and then he climbed into the bed beside Mycroft. Mycroft pulled the blanket over the two of them, then snuggled down, turning to face Greg. He thought it should be odd or uncomfortable, sharing a bed, but it wasn't. It was… comfortable. It felt… right.

Mycroft tugged Greg closer, tucking the other boy's head under his chin, letting him press close. It was right and new and yet, something Mycroft and Greg could both get used to fast. As Greg fell asleep, he was sure that their arrangements at school would be changing. For the better, of course.

* * *

><p>Christmas. A day for giving and receiving. For spending time with the ones you loved.<p>

Currently, the residents of Baker House were all sitting in the sitting room of the Holmes Manor, some on the couch, some on the floor. Greg was wrapped in blankets and Mycroft, and the two of them were sitting closest to the tree. They were in charge of passing out gifts to the various people sitting around with coffee, tea and hot cocoa.

"This one's for… John. From Sherlock," Greg said, handing a green wrapped gift to the younger boy in question.

John took it and stole a glance at Sherlock who refused to look at him. It was a pretty big box. "I saw no need to wrap everything individually," he said before John opened it. Inside was a book about surgery, a mini surgery kit, a light blue jumper and…

"Is this… _Operation_?" John asked with a chuckle. The board game, that is. Sherlock smiled. "We are definitely playing this sometime today."

It went like that, passing out gifts and getting them. Harry got lingerie from Irene and a jumper from John, her face going red at the sight of the former. Sherlock received a riding crop from Irene, as well as a wink, and a blue scarf that he wrapped around his neck from John. He also got a Persian slipper from John, but just one, and the two of them laughed quietly while the others looked on in confusion. When Mycroft pulled out a gift wrapped in blue paper for Sherlock, the other boy's face went blank. He handed one over to Mycroft and didn't say a word.

Mycroft insisted that he should open his from Sherlock first. It was a large box of chocolate and the older boy smirked and shook his head, opening it and offering one to Greg, who popped it into his mouth with a contented smile. The chocolate was _not_ cheap, not by any means.

Then Sherlock opened his.

And gasped.

"You… I can't… but you-you…" He looked up sharply at Mycroft. "_Mycroft_…."

Sherlock pulled out a violin. And not just any violin, but a _Stradivarius_. His face was blank and then he broke out into a rare, honest smile, and John said, "You play?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock tuned the thing, rosined the bow and began playing a soft melody that sounded very much like Silent Night. Mycroft was holding in a smile, Greg could see it from here, and he shook his head and clapped softly when Sherlock was finished. Sherlock did not thank him; he simply nodded his head, an excited look in his eye.

The gifts were going great. Until Jim handed one to Sherlock. "What is this?"

"A gift."

Sherlock sighed and opened it. He took out an ear. Instead of being disgusted, as John was beside him, he looked up at Jim and said, "You knew?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "You've only been talking about that damn experiment all year. Go ahead and try it."

"What's the catch?"

Jim smiled. "Oh, _nothing_. I just get to watch. And _getting_ the ear was all the catch I needed."

Sherlock got up quickly, John following, and ran into the kitchen. Greg turned to Mycroft and asked, "What is he doing?"

Mycroft sighed. "Putting ears in the microwave."

Right. Greg didn't want to know.

When Sherlock and John got back, they continued on with the gift-giving. Irene received a lovely red dress from Harry and let some snide remarks about re-dressing and undressing for the girl slip out into the Christmas talk. Harry also got her padded gloves. Irene stared at them, then at Harry and then asked her, "Are you sure?"

Harry just laughed. "Of course."

No one really said anything about them after that.

Soon, Sebastian was handing Jim a package. The smaller boy slit his eyes at him then opened the box quite primly. And gasped. And blinked and then pulled out what looked like a suit jacket. "Is this…?"

"Westwood," and Sebastian lifted an eyebrow.

Jim blinked. "_Westwood_. You got me… you got me Westwood. You got me _Westwood_?"

"Yes," Sebastian said dryly.

Jim smiled widely. He held the suit close to his chest. "I love me some Westwood."

"I know."

"Is that all?" Everyone else groaned. Jim. What a prat. His boyfriend just got him a fucking Westwood suit and he wanted to know if there was anything more?

Seb handed over a CD case. On the cover said, THE BEST OF THE BEE GEES. Jim cackled and then smiled and held out his other hand while humming staying alive. He knew Sebastian was holding out on him.

"Here," Sebastian said exasperatedly, and handed him a box.

Inside the box? "SEBBY, IT'S _SO_ FLUFFY!" A giant tiger plushie. "My tiger," Jim purred, holding the suit and plushie close and then kissing Seb on the mouth. He ripped away too quickly, leaving Sebastian sighing in the dust, and blurted, "Other Holmes! My gifts to Sebastian, quick!"

Mycroft handed them over, ignoring the rudeness he was met with and Jim lugged the giant box and smaller one he had over to Sebastian. "Merry Christmas, Sebastian Moran," he said brightly.

The first was a small box. Seb opened that one first. "Jim... what the hell is this?" He held it up and inside? A heart. A _human_ heart.

"It's a heart," Jim said innocently, "to show my love for you.

"Yeah, I can see that. Where did you get this?"

"On the ground."

"Yes, but _where did it come from_ Jim?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "A human body. Sebastian, can you not recognize it?"

Seb squinted at it. "It... looks a bit charred." Jim shrugged. "Did you happen to go to that house fire last week?" Jim shrugged again. "_James_."

"It's a gift, stop asking," Jim snapped. So Sebastian moved onto the bigger box, everyone steering clear of the smaller one. With the human heart. _Damn_.

Seb looked at the bigger box, then slowly opened it. It was a black case, one that could go over his shoulder, and when he opened the case, he sat back and looked at Jim, a blush rising to his cheeks. "You… you got me a rifle?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sebastian. I got you a rifle. Since I '_broke'_ yours," he said dramatically, clearly convinced he was not to blame. "Still. Have it, Tiger."

Sebastian picked up the weapon, pointing it away from everyone and checked the sights. Then he checked the scope and all these other things Greg couldn't identify and whistled in appreciation. "Fuck Jim."

"Oh yes, let's," Moriarty responded honestly. "Now? Please say now, I'm done giving presents, let's go now." And to no one's surprise, Sebastian stood up, saluted them all, and let Jim drag him out of the room by the hand.

"Right, moving on," John said. "Mycroft, Greg. You haven't given each other anything. Let's do that."

Greg rubbed his eyes and handed his small package to Mycroft, who lifted an eyebrow and opened it. Inside were a pair of buttery soft leather driving gloves that Greg had gone all out for and had even dipped into his car savings for. They were in a smoky gray color. The same color, as Mycroft soon realized, as Greg's hair.

"These are…" Mycroft held them up to his boyfriends forehead, comparing the hair color to the gloves.

"Yep," Greg said casually.

Mycroft looked at them, put them on, smiled. "You are absolutely devious, Gregory Lestrade."

Greg smiled. "Kind of the point." The point being that now Mycroft would be reminded of him every time he wore the gloves. A perfect little plan to be constantly on the older boy's mind.

Mycroft put the gloves aside and then handed a smallish looking box to Greg. Greg undid the tape, opened the cardboard lid and lifted out a dark button-up. It was so soft, though, some kind of silk that didn't look gaudy or expensive but he knew it must be, because it looked so damn comfortable. Greg lifted an eyebrow, Irene and Harry humming in approval, Sherlock and John chuckling.

They stopped chuckling when Greg pulled out concert tickets.

To see _The Clash_.

He looked up at Mycroft quickly, then back down at the tickets, then at Mycroft , then back to the tickets in disbelief. So Mycroft had been listening all those weekends as Greg listened to the same band over and over. He had thought this summer concert was sold out, but somehow, somehow Mycroft had gotten his hands on these tickets (there were four of them) and this was – this was…

"Holy fuck," Greg finally said, dazed and surprised. "Mycroft… holy fucking shite. You're fucking _mad_, how the hell did you…?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Shut up and kiss him already," he said exasperated, making John laugh and Irene and Harry giggle.

So Greg did. Just to get at the younger boy.

He kissed Mycroft because yes, he really loved The Clash, but now he could take Mycroft and brainwash him with his amazing music and UGH. UGH. Another look at the tickets revealed that The Cure would be opening and closing for them and Greg couldn't take that. He let himself flop backwards on the rug he was on, Mycroft poking him in the stomach to elicit a giggle.

In all, it was one of the best Christmases Greg had ever had the pleasure to be a part of.

Soon though, Irene and Harry left, claiming that they had to eat something today and that they mind as well go for it, and they headed to the kitchen. John and Sherlock sighed in unison then headed up to their shared room to play _Operation_. Greg and Mycroft were left, Greg still lying on the ground. Mycroft straddled him easily, comfortably and smiled down at him.

"Hello there," Mycroft said softly.

Greg chuckled. "Yeah. Hey, you."

Mycroft looked above them, where they were close to the mantle of the fireplace and he frowned contemplatively. "I fear I must ask something of you Gregory. An old Christmas tradition, I believe."

"Oh yeah?" Greg asked, letting his hands run up Mycroft's ribs and settle on his waist. "What tradition?"

"There appears to be mistletoe above us," and he gestured with his head to the small bundle hanging off the mantle. "People kiss under the mistletoe do they not?" He stroked the side of Greg's face softly.

And Greg wasn't thinking about the tickets, or Jim and Seb fucking upstairs, or innocent John and Sherlock playing Operation or Harry and Irene making breakfast or, even, how wonderful it felt to have Mycroft's hot weight pressing him into the floor and how he wondered if having sex with him would be this exhilarating, as exhilarating as it was just to kiss him or touch or be near him or think of him.

No.

Greg was thinking about how he very much wanted to kiss his boyfriend, straight on the mouth. And so he yanked Mycroft down by the front of his shirt and did just that.

"Merry Christmas Mycroft Holmes," Greg whispered against Mycroft's mouth.

Mycroft smiled against Greg's lips. "Merry Christmas Gregory Lestrade."

* * *

><p><strong>So there! Hope that was ok for now guiz! Don't know when the next chappie will be up, but it's coming no worries. Probably the weekend. Once again, thanks for reading this shite, you crazy people! And please review!<strong>

**On a side note? To all my British Readers: I haven't had this Brit-picked, so if there are any American words instead of British ones in here, please inform me so I know for the future chapters what to put instead! Thanks so much!**

**REVIEW! **

**(hehehe yeah, I said it again!)**


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